Love's Journey
by The Yankee Countess
Summary: The story and romance of Tom Branson and Lady Sybil Crawley is retold through a series of letters, diary entries, and personal POV thoughts, spanning from Branson's arrival at Downton in 1913, and ultimately leading to their journey to Ireland in (Part of the "Love's Journey Saga"-a *happily ever after* Downton universe) NOW COMPLETE!
1. A Letter Home

_**SUMMERY: **__The story and romance of Tom Branson and Lady Sybil Crawley is retold through a series of letters, diary entries, and personal POV thoughts, spanning from Branson's arrival at Downton in 1913, and ultimately leading to their marriage in 1919. VOLUME ONE deals specifically with the events of season 1 of "Downton Abbey"; VOLUME TWO will quickly follow it, and deal with the events during WWI. _

_In preparing and writing this story, I went back and re-watched season 1, trying to follow it as meticiously as possible and stay in cannon for as much as possible-my goal is to make it seem that yes, these letters and personal musings could very well have happened in the background, while everything else was going on. Some of the scenes in the POV chapters are creations of my own and did not take place in the show (at least not in front of the camera!) I like to think of them as my own personal "deleted scenes" to the show. Finally, as we all know, the reason we love Downton Abbey so much are the rich cast of characters; but even we have to now and then create our own to help tell whatever story we're trying to share. Little is known about Branson's family, so a majority of those characters are of my own creation. I did however consult the "Downton Wiki" as much as possible to get as much "extra info" as I could for this story._

_I hope you enjoy this little S/B romance; it certainly has been a pleasure to write and I look forward to hearing any thoughts from readers. Thank you! _-The Yankee Countess

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><p>"<strong>Love's Journey"<strong>

_**by The Yankee Countess**_

_**Volume One, Part I**_

_Spring/Summer 1913_

**Chapter One**

Dear Mother,

I pray that this letter finds you and our family in good health and spirits. At the very least, I hope my news can provide you with a little of that. Well, I did promise I would write when I had good news, and I am pleased to share that within my one week in London, I have found a new position! I know you were quite distressed after I told you about handing in my notice to Lady Henley, and while I still stand by my decision and believe it was the right one to make, I am sorry for the worry that I caused you and can only hope that this good news restores your faith in me, and eases any anxiety about your oldest son traveling to England.

You will also be pleased to know that my new position will take me away from the crowded streets of London—deny it all you want, I know you hated the idea of me living in the city, much less driving in it. No, the place I am to go is in the country, in Yorkshire: Downton Abbey. The Earl of Grantham and his family reside there, and the Earl's solicitor has informed me multiple times since my acceptance that "the Earl is a good man and will be a very kind master". What solicitor would say otherwise? If I recall, the job agency in Dublin said the same about Lady Henley, but I will not bother to reopen old wounds. I leave for Yorkshire in two days, so by the time you read this I will hopefully be settling in to my new position.

I still can't help but laugh when I remember my attempts at trying to convince all of you that there was money to be made in driving aristocrats about. I certainly remember Father scoffing at the idea, declaring that no one in their right mind would want to own a car, much less want to be driven about in one. It just shows that time can bring many changes, both in invention, and in ideas. But not to worry Mother, I can already hear you clucking your tongue at me as I write these words. I promise, though you may find it hard to believe, to keep my thoughts and beliefs in check and not to give sway to passionate outbursts.

…Unless otherwise provoked. I'm sorry, that's the best I can do! Oh Lord, Mother, if you could see me now; I can't stop grinning, imagining the sour look you're giving me and possibly looking for something to throw at my head. But in all seriousness, I do promise to be careful and to not sully our good name. I swear, I would rather die than bring shame to you or our family, so be assured in that at least.

I informed the agency in Dublin to forward my remaining wages from Lady Henley to you; I pray they have arrived by now. Don't worry about me, I'm perfectly fine and have enough to get me by until I start at Downton. I will write to you again once I'm there and will hopefully have some more money to send very soon. I'm also sending some postcards to the girls; they begged me for some souvenir from London. Take care of yourself and please, don't take on more than absolutely necessary; remember you have both me and Frank working full time now, and I know our uncle is doing what he can to help as well, so don't overdo it! As you may guess, I have my own set of spies keeping watch for me.

Oh I miss you dearly, Mother, I miss our home and family, but I do believe that I am doing the right thing, working over here and providing as best I can. I promise to write again very soon, God willing, and with more good news to share. Please give my love to everyone and know that I think of them often and pray for their health and happiness.

Your loving son,

Tom


	2. First Day

**Chapter Two**

"The staff are up and working at six sharp every morning, lighting the fires and preparing the tea trays, as well as making sure that each room is in pristine order. While this will have very little impact on your duties, I explain this to you because we do try to have breakfast before his Lordship or the family wakens. You are welcome to join us for breakfast, but if so, do not dawdle; otherwise there will hardly be anything left. Mrs. Patmore will be far too busy setting the menu up for the rest of the day, so don't expect any sympathy from her if you come in, starving."

"Yes, Mr. Carson."

The Downton butler, a formidable fellow who clearly took the running of the house quite seriously, had taken him from his interview in the Earl's library, to the kitchens, pointing out various things here and there, before finally leading him outside to the garage where he would be spending a majority of his time. He had seen several other servants along the way, but no introductions were made, save for the head cook and housekeeper, and even those were quite brief. This wasn't his first job, and Branson knew the reality of his position; indeed, a chauffeur was staff, but different from other servants. He would not be spending his time preparing meals, polishing silver, cleaning carpets, or mending snags in dresses. Unless specifically called for by the Earl or Mr. Carson, he wasn't expected to venture beyond the kitchens if he entered the house at all. So with that understanding in mind, why bother introducing the new chauffeur? He had caught several kitchen maids looking up at him, and was polite enough to tip is head and give a small smile, which caused a few of them to giggle and blush before being shushed by the cook. He couldn't help but chuckle to himself, wondering how many of them even knew the name of the last chauffeur.

Mr. Carson continued delivering rules and instructions while he led Branson out to the garage. The rest of the staff had the kitchens to work in; this was to be his workshop. Not only was he solely responsible for driving his Lordship and any guest or member of the Crawley family about, but he was also in charge of the care and maintenance to all the cars in the Earl's possession—which was the present cause for distraction.

He tried his hardest to listen to the Downton butler, but he was too busy admiring the Earl's collection of fine automobiles—indeed, this job would appear to be far from boring.

"Right…well, I believe that covers the bulk of it. If you have any questions, see either me or Mrs. Hughes, although she will be leaving this afternoon; it is her day off. But otherwise, either she or I will be on hand to answer anything you need to know—now, if you will follow me…"

Branson forced himself to lift his eyes from the 1910 Renault beauty, and follow Mr. Carson just beyond the garage to what could only be described as a tiny, semi-attached cottage, just off to the side.

"These will be your quarters," Carson explained, opening the cottage door. Branson followed the butler inside and took in the tiny house that was now to be his home. It was a little larger than the cottage at his last job, which in truth was more like a large, one-room flat. There were two rooms, the larger of which was a combination of sitting room and kitchen, while the smaller was the bedroom. There was single wardrobe in the bedroom, as well as a washstand next to the bed. In the larger room there was a small table that could also serve as a desk, an armchair, coal-stove, and, to his delight, a small, empty bookcase. A far cry from the grand shelves within the Earl's library, but large enough to hold the few precious volumes he had brought from home.

"…His Lordship recently had both the cottage and the garage installed with electricity—" Branson quickly turned his attention back to Mr. Carson, who was still speaking as if giving a riveting tour. He hoped he looked as if he had been listening closely. "—you may think it frivolous, but I assure it will come in handy, certainly if you need to work on a car late in the evening."

Branson nodded his head in agreement. "Indeed. Thank you, Mr. Carson."

Carson seemed a little surprised by Branson's response, perhaps expecting him to argue or be wary after learning this new information. Branson was just grateful he wouldn't have to hold an oil lamp over his head while trying to check an engine in the dark anymore. His last employer would have thought it a perfect waste, putting electricity anywhere beyond the main house.

"Right…well, that is that," Carson said with a nod of his head, before clasping his hands behind his back and straightening his shoulders. "I'll leave you to get yourself settled; no doubt his Lordship or her Ladyship will want a ride today, seeing as they have been waiting for your arrival over the last two days, so do not make yourself too scarce. Oh, and you will also be responsible for driving her Ladyship, the Dowager Countess, to and from the Dowager House to Downton, should she wish to come for dinner…which is most likely to be every evening."

No rest for the wicked. "Thank you, sir. I will be ready when they call."

Carson nodded his head, a grim line lifting on his face; Branson supposed it was the closest thing to a smile that the old man could muster. He turned to leave, but paused just long enough to say, "Welcome to Downton." And without another look or word, he was gone.

Branson let out a sigh, a smile creeping across his face as he turned and looked around the cottage, truly taking everything in. It wasn't bad; by no means a palace, but he never expected anything of the such. No, for what it was, it was perfect. Everything he could possibly need was right here, and he was grateful for the inclusion of a desk and shelves. He pushed his trunk beneath the bed, deciding to unpack later. He did, however, lay the small satchel that had belonged to his grandfather down upon the desk, and quickly went about the task of placing the six books he had brought from home upon the shelf.

He smiled at the books, and then recalled the Earl's invitation to borrow any books he wished to read from the Grantham library, so long as he kept the Earl informed about what he was taking. He remembered the Earl's surprised face when he had admitted that his interests were history and politics. No doubt his Lordship was expecting Branson to be like the butler and housekeeper and only show an interest in novels. Still, it was very kind of him to make the offer, and Branson could not deny that he had been taken aback by the Earl's invitation. Lady Henley would have turned purple with rage if she had caught him taking a book from her library, not that she had anything of great interest to read. As he gazed at the books on his shelf, their covers crinkling, the pages yellow and dog-earred, he knew that before the week was out, he would be making good on that invitation.

"Best be careful on what you do borrow, Tom Branson," he muttered to himself. He highly doubted that the Earl kept anything on Socialist Politics, but even so, he didn't want to be raising too many suspicions right after landing the job.

He debated about whether he had enough time to sit and write to his family, but chose to wait until evening, when he knew there was little chance for interruption. Despite his stern demeanor, Branson admitted that he liked Mr. Carson, and he certainly wanted to show the butler that he would make a fine addition to Downton's staff by being prompt and ready. And as Carson had said, no doubt he would be called within the hour to drive…which incidentally did provide the perfect excuse to spend a little more time now, getting acquainted with the Earl's cars.

They were beautiful vehicles, each one, although he could not deny that he did fancy the Renault a little more than the rest. He opened the bonnet to each, checking the engines, before kneeling on the ground to get a look beneath them. He circled each car, running his fingers over the tires, feeling for anything irregular, and finally, one by one, sat in the driver's seat, making the proper adjustments for the mirrors and steering wheel. He would have to ask Mr. Carson if the family had a particular car in mind when they went out. Some of them were quite old, but seemed to have been barely driven; no doubt those were saved for only the most special occasions.

He recalled after leaving the library, and before Mr. Carson guided him downstairs, that he spied a well-dressed lady, walking down an opposite hall. There was little doubt that she was Lady Grantham, the Countess of Downton Abbey. She looked to be close in age to the Earl, and walking just behind her was a younger lady, also finely dressed. The London agency had informed him that the Earl and Countess had three grown daughters, so no doubt this was one of them. Even though the ladies were at the other end of the hallway, and not walking towards him, Branson was able to overhear a few words.

"That must be the new chauffeur; oh thank heaven, I have been dying for a trip to Ripon. Sybil, dear, inform your sisters that we will leave after luncheon."

Indeed, no rest for the wicked. He only hoped that her Ladyship wouldn't protest if he drove the car a little over 20mph.

He had traveled past Ripon on his way to Downton; no doubt it was the shops that her Ladyship was longing to visit, perhaps to buy or order a new frock or two. It also sounded as if the Countess wanted all of her daughters to accompany her, which meant he needed to prepare himself to the idea of lifting and carrying who knows how many packages. However, if the other two daughters shared the same "enthusiasm" that their sister held upon her mother's suggestion, then maybe it would be a short trip.

He felt the corners of his mouth lift as he recalled the girl's unenthusiastic response. Even though they were far enough away, he knew he wasn't supposed to stare, so he was careful to divert his eyes and look as if he were focused on Mr. Carson's back while being led downstairs. Still, he had caught a slight roll of her eyes as she murmured a polite, "Yes, Mama." Not wanting to earn a scowl from either her Ladyship or Mr. Carson, he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from chuckling. However…any laughter that had bubbled up in his throat died quickly when for the briefest second, the young woman's eyes lifted and caught his own gaze from across the hall.

He was quick to divert his eyes, and inwardly chastised himself for not being more careful. He kept his gaze glued to Mr. Carson's back until they finally reached the kitchens.

She was quite pretty, and looked young, certainly no more than sixteen or seventeen. She was most likely the Earl's youngest daughter. She had the same coloring as her parents, although possibly not as pale as her Ladyship. Perhaps the youngest Crawley daughter enjoyed being outdoors—didn't young ladies of the aristocracy enjoy riding horses? Her hair was a warm, rich brown, like a cup of his mother's hot chocolate. But it was her eyes that had startled him in that brief moment when their gazes met: clear and light, the color of the sky overhead; blue when the sun shone, gray when a cloud passed.

"Don't be foolish, Tom Branson," he muttered to himself as he got out of the car. It was one thing to admire a chambermaid whose staff position was higher than your own, and quite another to admire the daughter of one's employer. "She's a pretty girl, that's all." And that was exactly how he would think of her, a pretty _girl_. Although, God willing, he would not think of her at all…

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><p><em>Please let me know what you think! I hope you enjoyed! <em>


	3. Sybil's Diary

**Chapter Three**

May 16, 1913

Mama can be quite impossible sometimes. She keeps insisting that I get a new dress when Lord knows I have plenty; I know both Mary and Edith would gasp if I said this out loud—and Granny would probably fetch the doctor wondering what is wrong with me, while Carson fetches smelling salts for Mama, but…isn't it possible to have too many dresses? If I must get one, can't it be different? Can't it be something…new and exciting?

If I think Mama's impossible now, I dread what she will be like next spring. She already goes on and on about it—_the_ _bloody_ _season_. I can't help but laugh at myself for writing that; I would never say such things in front of anyone, not even Gwen or Anna, but it's true! Why such the fuss? Yes…while I can't deny that it would be a little exciting to see the Queen, at the same time I couldn't care less about balls or coming out parties; I don't understand why so much stock is put into a young lady's "presentation into society". There are far more important things to put one's energy and efforts to.

I remember Anna's face when she found my collection of Papa's discarded newspapers hiding under my mattress; I begged her not to say anything to Carson, for I know he would disapprove, much more so than Papa. Papa wouldn't understand why I took them, but he wouldn't see any harm. But I know Carson would go straight to Mama, or worse, to Granny. I am quite fond of Carson, truly, but he likes everything just so; he's very much like Granny in that respect. He wouldn't know what to make of an Earl's daughter, reading a newspaper, scanning every column she could find and seeking any news about the Suffrage Movement. I can't help but grin as I envision his flustered face, before turning at once to find my mother and report me as if I were a naughty school girl.

That's the other thing; why do they still insist on talking to me as if I were a child? If I am old enough to be "presented" to society, why do Mary and Edith cut me off every time I speak, or why do both Mama and Papa look at me as if I were a lost puppy whenever I venture to talk about something serious in the world? It's infuriating!

So there it is. There was no reasoning with Mama, she insisted that I get a new dress, and she even told the chauffeur to drive me to Ripon tomorrow to get fitted. How embarrassing! And he's new! He doesn't understand how Mama can be, at least not yet. I know Mary and Edith would tell me that I'm worrying over nothing, but I can't help it. Servant or not, it's still embarrassing to have one's mother order you about as if you were a child that can't speak for herself, and then to tell a man that you're going specifically to be fitted!

I know…I know…I'm being silly about the whole thing. And at least he was kind enough not to stammer or blink or blush. Poor Taylor; I remember how he would sometimes look all flabbergasted when Mama would make arrangements to have him drive Mary or Edith for a fitting. At the time I thought it was hilarious. Of course Taylor was much older than our new chauffeur.

His name is Branson, and actually, I had seen him earlier today, before the drive to town. He had just come out of Papa's library and was being led by Carson to the kitchens. I caught his gaze just before he and Carson disappeared around a corner. It was nothing more than a glance, but I did think he had kind eyes. I wasn't quite able to catch their color—an interesting combination of gray and green. I had hoped that maybe I would be able to solve this little mystery later today on our drive, but at the same time I didn't want to appear rude by outwardly staring. Besides, Edith began to pout, so all attention needed to be devoted to her.

Maybe when he drives me to Ripon tomorrow I will have my answer. We'll have to look at each other then, and my glancing won't be so obvious.

I don't know why I'm going on about it—I suppose I'm just grateful for an opportunity to be by myself, tomorrow…well, almost.

Oh, I wish I could have been like Gwen and the others, and leave this house to attend the fair, rather than be cooped up in a straining corset and listen to Granny's complaints about why a maid would want to be anything more than just a maid. Oh Branson—I hope he knows what he's getting into, coming to this house!


	4. Another Letter Home

**Chapter Four**

Dear Mother,

Greetings from Downton Abbey! As I had promised, I am writing to you now, after settling into my new position.

First, I would like to put any concern you may have to rest; the Earl of Grantham seems to be a fine man, and I have been reassured by many of his staff that he is a good employer. Time will truly tell on that, but I confess I do have a good feeling about him. I know Uncle Michael would find that hard to believe; he's always going about, cursing the English. But take it from your son, not your drunken brother, that I am truly fine and settling well here in Yorkshire.

It's a quiet place, Downton, although it has its frivolities; the girls would have liked the fair that was being set up in the village when I arrived. Sadly, I was unable to attend and win them any prizes on account of driving the Dowager Countess, but I'll make it up to them next year and send a package overflowing with trophies from completing daring feats, such as tossing rings or knocking milk bottles over with a rubber ball.

The staff here are good people too, well, almost all of them. There's a haughty maid who thinks a chauffeur shouldn't mingle with the rest of them at meals, but her opinion is a clear minority. His Lordship's valet is a very kind, good-hearted gentleman, who I've gotten along with right away. And the butler, while strict and intimidating at first, really is admirable in the hard work he puts into his responsibilities. So you see, I truly am in good company, despite what this so-called "lady's maid" thinks.

As for my quarters, they are small but they suit me fine. The bed, where I am writing this, I am pleased to say is comfortable and lice free. The coal stove doesn't sputter and fill the room with smoke, and can you believe it Mother, the garage has electricity! No more late nights, tinkering with an engine by the light of an oil lamp. Speaking of engines, the Earl has a fine collection of cars! I know you care very little about such things, but rest assured that they all seem to be in wonderful condition and working order, so there's no need to fret for my safety. Although I know that's a silly thing to say, for I know exactly what you would say to that: "Tom Branson, I am your mother and I will always fret about you!" Yes, I suppose there is nothing that can be done about that…but please know that I am healthy and happy…save for missing all of you.

I hope that my letter from London has arrived by now, along with the postcards. I will write again soon and look forward to hearing from you. Simply refer to the address on the back. Well it's quite late, so I best be sealing this and getting some sleep.

All of my love to each and every one of you—God bless you,

Tom


	5. Sybil's Diary II

**Chapter Five**

May 17, 1913

I'm so excited! Truly, as I am writing this I cannot stop grinning! Oh what will Mama say? What will Granny say! Oh to imagine the shock on their faces! But the deal is done; I went right into the dressmakers with the newspaper clipping and informed Madame Swan what I would like. After all, Mama did say I could choose the design, so long as she agreed—and she was thrilled that I wanted to borrow one of her old Sketch's for ideas…she just didn't know which design I would pull!

Oh poor Madame Swan; I think she was a little taken aback as well. She's so used to doing the same design over and over for me, but she did agree to do it and said it would be finished by Friday, and from that moment on, I have not been able to stop smiling! Papa kept looking at me during dinner with a curious expression. Mama smiled too, and asked why I was so amused. Of course Granny thought something must be wrong and immediately asked if I were ill—oh Granny. Thankfully, everyone was focused on all the good work Cousin Matthew is doing with the Downton cottages, which took any attention I was receiving away, and gave me the freedom to grin with little notice.

Oh how ridiculous I must sound, going on and on about a frock. It's very unlike me; why earlier this evening I was complaining to Anna about how I despise corsets! But the truth is it's not just the idea of my new "dress" that has me smiling. The excitement for the day began with Gwen arriving in my room and telling me that she's received a reply! She claims it's my reference that's helped her, but I know it's the hard work she's put in, learning how to type and take correspondence that's done it. She and I began concocting a plan, for of course they'll want to see her. Oh I'm so thrilled for Gwen! I know that she will succeed!

But even that's not the only reason for my excitement. As soon as I was able, I retreated to my room and began reading the pamphlets that Branson was kind enough to give me. At last! The information I have been yearning for all this time, but had such difficulty finding in Papa's newspapers.

That was really, truly kind of him. I won't deny I was at first taken aback by his bold questions. We hadn't driven but a few meters from Madame Swan's before he spoke to me, at first asking if he thought I would get my way with the design for my frock. I confess, I blushed immediately, and realized that he _had_ heard everything Mama had said to me the other day about the fitting! But before I became a blubbering fool, he quickly explained that yes, he had overheard our conversation, but instead of focusing on the dress, he immediately asked if I were interested in women's rights. My embarrassment quickly melted away into amazement, for I could have sworn I heard what sounded like…admiration, perhaps?

_"Suppose I am?"_ Those were the words I replied with. They sound much colder now, as I write them, but the truth is I'm so used to being patronized for my beliefs, that I half expected him to have a similar reaction.

But no, he proceeded to tell me that he was quite political, and was interested in knowing my thoughts on such matters! That was when he gave me the pamphlets, telling me he had picked them up when he was in London, before coming to Downton. I couldn't believe it! Not only was he not berating me for my thoughts on women's rights, but he was also providing me with information on the subject!

Once I got over my shock, I looked at him and said something about how "unlikely" it all seemed; the idea of a "revolutionary chauffeur". I said unlikely but I think what I truly meant was…interesting. Of course he had a response to that as well. _"I'm a socialist, not a revolutionary, and I won't always be a chauffeur."_

Well done. I must say, Branson has truly inspired me, perhaps more so than these wonderful pamphlets! Why should we feel tied down to the roles society says we are to follow? Why can't a chauffeur be more if he wishes to be? Why can't a woman have a voice in how the country is governed? It is so refreshing to finally meet someone who doesn't think you're mad for believing such things!

I know that I barely know him, but I do believe that I can trust Branson in not telling Papa or Granny about having the pamphlets, although he knows it would expose him too, so there is another reason to be quiet about the whole situation. Of course…now that I think about it, that truly sheds a new light on the situation. Branson had to trust me first, to know that I wouldn't report him for giving me this information. I guess we're in the same boat together.

It feels nice saying that. I mean, it feels nice, knowing that there is someone here who seems to understand me. Well, I best end this entry; I am eager to read and learn more about my fellow sister suffragettes!

Oh! One more thing—it's _both_; greenish-gray…with perhaps a little blue as well. I finally solved my mystery.


	6. 1913: A Letter to Martin, Branson

**Chapter Six**

Dear Martin,

I apologize for not writing to you sooner; I only recently learned from Mother that you have also changed positions, and are now working in Devon. While it's not home, I'm sure Uncle Michael will be somewhat relieved that you're a tad closer to the Irish coast. No doubt he still blames me for influencing his only son to travel to England to find work. As I just started this job I'm unsure when my first holiday will be, but hopefully you and I will be able to meet and catch up then. It will be good to see a familiar face, as well as hear a fellow Irishman.

I'm settling well here in my new position; at the very least, it's proving to be much better than the last one. I hope the same is true for you. The Earl of Grantham appears to be a good man; at the very least he's a fair employer. You won't believe this, but upon my interview with him, he actually gave me permission to borrow any books I would like from his own library! Of course I am to alert him of what I borrow, but I must confess, I can't imagine many employers being generous enough to make such an invitation.

Naturally Uncle Michael would disapprove; "never trust the English", he would say. Normally I'm inclined to agree with him, but I might make an exception for his Lordship.

But enough about that; Martin, you should see the cars I get to drive! Lady Henley had that one dusty Rolls-Royce that she barely allowed me to go above 20, much less 15mph! The Earl has five beauties, each in pristine condition and top order. Of course my mother would wonder what a man needs so many cars for, but then she doesn't understand why anyone needs a car when a horse and cart would get you to the same destination just as well. I haven't had the chance yet to drive each one, but I hope to very soon. Most of my journeys have been to several local villages, but I have heard talk about a possible future trip to London. If that does happen, promise not to say anything to either Uncle Michael or my mother; no doubt she'd swim the Irish Sea to stop me from driving those city streets.

Alright, I know what you really want to hear—sadly, no rallies yet, but I have heard that every so often they hold them in the nearby village of Ripon; I'll have to keep my eyes and ears open for any word on anything political.

Alright, alright, you can stop throwing curses at me! As soon as I can stop laughing, I'll write what I know you really, _really_ want to hear…

There are a good number of pretty maids here, but the housekeeper hovers overhead like a hawk, ready to snatch up any lad that tries anything funny. And if it's not her, then the cook is nearby ready to use her rolling pin for more than just kneading dough. Still, I have had the opportunity to talk with a few of the girls during mealtimes. Although I should be clear that from them, it's more twittering than speaking. One maid told me the other day that she loved my accent, before bursting into a fit of giggles. I think that was the longest conversation I've been able to have with some of them. There's one kitchen maid named Daisy who seems quite sweet; in many ways she reminds me of my sisters. I'd mention your name to her if I thought it would do you any good, but she seems torn between two footmen: one, a young lad who is obviously quite keen on her, and the other, who reminds me of a snake, slithering in the grass. Sadly, I think this is the one she's keener on. There's another girl you might like; an upstairs maid named Gwen, a pretty red-head—although I've heard rumors from some of the other maids that she may be leaving Downton soon. Shall I steer her your way to Devon?

And…well, there's another lady, but she's not a servant here…

A suffragette I met in the village, actually. She's young, but she speaks in such a way that she seems far more mature than her sisters. She's quite pretty too, with long, brown hair and bright, bluish-gray eyes. She clearly has an interest in politics, and we were able to exchange a few words on the subject before I had to return to my job.

And there are other pretty girls in the village as well, of course. I'm sure Devon has many too. Anyway, I shouldn't be rattling on about this and wasting ink and paper. Do write to me as soon as you are able and let me know how you're getting on. I pray that all goes well for you in your new position and eagerly look forward to hearing more about it.

Your loving cousin,

Tom


	7. A Trip to Ripon

**Chapter Seven**

They were fighting again. But it was what her sisters were good at. Sybil bit her lip to keep from smiling at the thought. If only Mary and Edith put as much energy and effort into the fight for women's rights as they did to their own foolish squabbles—women would have had the vote six years ago.

They were in the car, on their way to Ripon for the final fitting before she could whisk her new frock home. Sybil couldn't help but grin at the thought, which surprisingly caught Edith's attention.

"Something amusing?"

"No," she lied.

Edith rolled her eyes, and without so much as a breath, picked right up where she and Mary had left off.

Sybil rolled her own eyes, and quickly caught the reflection of another pair of eyes, twinkling with amusement from behind the steering wheel. Sybil covered her grin with her hand, but kept her eyes locked with Branson's for a moment, whose eyes shared her mirth at the spectacle around them, before returning his attention to the road.

How silly her sisters could be. And how silly were the things that they argued over. Though she was the youngest, she always felt like the oldest child, sent in to serve as referee to their quarrels. When Papa had more or less announced to their family that Mary and Patrick were to be engaged, Edith looked truly heartbroken. Mary obviously didn't care for Patrick in the same way, but that didn't stop her from flaunting the engagement in front of Edith. Immediately a row began, and once again, though only fifteen, Sybil found herself in the uncomfortable role as peacekeeper. After Patrick's death, the same thing happened all over again; Mary snapped at Edith's wailing, while Edith condemned Mary for being heartless and showing no sympathy. And then, with the arrival of their cousin Matthew, their unending game of trying to humiliate and out-do the other only escalated further. Was this truly all they could think about?

How she wished she could have traveled to Ripon by herself. How she wished it were like the other day, when it was just her and Branson in the car. She enjoyed their brief chat on politics, and she was eager to discuss with him everything she had read in those pamphlets, but of course that would be completely out of the question with her sisters present. Mary was a little more sympathetic to her feelings on women's rights, but at the same time, both her sisters teased her for being "obsessed", as they put it. Besides, it wouldn't be so much the topic of conversation that they would disagree to, but _who_ that conversation was with.

She recalled that earlier drive, how they drove past the cottages Matthew was overseeing in being repaired. Feeling a little bolder with this outspoken chauffeur, she chose to initiate the next conversation, and mentioned her cousin's name, and the project he was working on with the cottages. Branson nodded his head, and Sybil was able to see him smiling in the driver's mirror. He then complimented Matthew, calling his work both noble and progressive. Sybil beamed, as if she were the one receiving the compliment. This then began another conversation; apparently the other night, while waiting to take her grandmother back to the Dowager House, he had been sitting in the kitchen with Mr. Bates who was going through her father's collars, and placing the old ones in the missionary barrel. He told her it struck him as amusing that anyone would think giving old collars to someone in need was a great act of charity. _"I had said, 'I know it's meant to be kind, but I can think of better ways of helping the needy than sending stiff collars to the Equator'."_

He suddenly paused, remembering that he was speaking about his employer with one of his employer's daughters. But Sybil wasn't offended by his words, not at all. She was fascinated by them! And she must have surprised him with her grin, because in truth, it was the first time anyone spoke to her as if she were an equal. Being referred to as "Lady Sybil" did get tiring. And she always thought of Anna and Gwen as dear friends, and when they were with her in her chamber, she felt they could speak freely with one another. But outside of her chamber, it was endless curtseying and very little speaking, and if there was any speaking, it was either, "yes, milady" or "no, milady", with the occasional, "I couldn't possibly say, milady".

She did hope Gwen would find a job as a secretary, for many reasons, but there was one particular, selfish reason—perhaps then, the two of them could speak to one another as _friends_, and not as mistress and servant.

With the possible exceptions of her cousins Isobel and Matthew…Branson was the only person who spoke to her and treated her like an equal.

Well, to a point. Like Anna and Gwen, he too was forced to put on a more formal persona when others were around…like now.

Sybil sighed and leaned her head against the side of the car, trying her best to drown out her sisters, and just focus on the sounds of the engine instead. Her eyes drifted once again to the driver's mirror, and once more, she caught Branson's kind eyes, looking back at her.

A soft smile curled at the corners of her mouth. Like magic, everything else seemed to disappear, save for a smiling pair of Irish eyes.


	8. Sybil's Diary III

**Chapter Eight**

May 20, 1913

Success! Oh, I'm still giddy and giggling madly after the whole evening. The looks on all their faces! The shock on Mama's, the puzzlement on Papa's, the gaping mouths of both Mary and Edith, and Granny's expression…I think "horrified" would be the best word to describe it.

Cousins Matthew and Isobel were there too; I think Papa felt embarrassed on Matthew's part, but Matthew at least smiled after getting over the initial shock. Isobel was very kind, as always, and had to be the one to nurse the family out of their shock and bring everyone's attention back to dinner. Oh and poor Carson, I didn't even think to look behind me! No doubt he was like Papa, although I'm sure he could hide his embarrassment better.

Oh, but I don't care! It was wonderful! As shocking and daring as my frock may have been, it truly felt…liberating, I suppose. I can't think of a better word, so I will use that one! Yes, it felt very liberating, and just seemed to embody everything about this week: a demand for change and equality.

Truly, now that I sit and reflect upon it, it has been an inspiring week. So much has changed, and for the better! I feel I have such a better understanding now, about rights for women and the struggle for the vote than I've had all these past months in my quest through Papa's old papers. I applaud Cousin Matthew and his work on the cottages; truly, they will be so beneficial to the people who need them, much more so than any old, stiff collars. I have to agree with Branson on that; while the gesture is kind, charity needs to be more than just a show of simple kindness. I know Gwen will protest, but I will create some excuse in getting her to keep the dress I'm "lending" to her for her future job interview.

Ah, Gwen. I admire her so much, and applaud her too for striving to be what she wants to be, and not merely settling on something because it's more "conventional". She received bad news tonight, I'm afraid. The appointment she was planning to attend was canceled, and naturally it broke her heart. I did my best to help her rally, but she looked so dejected. There must be something I can do, something more than just serving as a reference.

Perhaps I can talk to Branson? I'm sure he could help! Maybe on his drives to Ripon or the other villages, he's heard word of offices in need of secretaries? At the very least he can help me look through the paper to find places to send an application.

I mean, he can help Gwen. I'll make sure to pass him some of Papa's papers—I mean, I'll make sure to give to either Anna or Gwen, some of Papa's papers to pass on to him. He'll know what to do, of course. And I know I can trust him, I—I mean, I know _Gwen_ and I can trust him.

Anna needs to pass on to one of the kitchen maids to not build the fire so high in here next time; I feel so flushed.

Anyway, I should put an end to this entry—I seem to be having trouble writing. I'm sure it's just my excitement from the evening, and from my determination to help Gwen achieve her dream, and nothing more.


	9. She's Different

**Chapter Nine**

"Ah! Mr. Branson, would you care to join us for a cup of tea before you retire?"

Branson had just entered the kitchen to see if Mr. Carson had discarded the servant's paper, hoping to get a chance to read it before it was tossed in the rubbish heap. Mrs. Hughes was just lifting the kettle off the stove when she spotted him coming in. Branson looked around the table; Anna, the head house maid, and Mr. Bates, the Earl's valet were there, as well as the two footmen he had written his cousin about. O'Brien, the stingy and unfriendly maid to her Ladyship, rose from her seat at Mrs. Hughes' invitation.

"Something wrong, Miss O'Brien?" Mrs. Hughes asked crisply.

"Fancy a smoke, that's all," O'Brien grumbled, before turning and leaving the kitchen. Thomas, the footman that reminded Branson of a snake, also rose and followed her.

"Good riddance," William, the younger footman, muttered under his breath. Mrs. Hughes gave him a sharp look, but didn't say anything.

Branson suppressed his own smile, before thanking the housekeeper and settling himself down at the table. "Long day," he sighed.

"Indeed, it has been," Mrs. Hughes replied, pouring the hot water into the tea pot. "Milk and sugar, Mr. Branson?"

"Milk only, thank you."

Mrs. Hughes proceeded to prepare Branson's cup, while Daisy scampered into the room, her face alight and beaming, but her smile quickly disappearing at the realization that someone she had come looking for, was no longer there. "Ah Daisy, would care for a cup of tea?" Mrs. Hughes asked, while handing Branson his cup.

Daisy nibbled on her bottom lip, and looked down the corridor. "Will Thomas be coming back, do you think?"

Both Anna and Bates let out a soft sigh that seemed to have a hint of exasperation to it. Branson wondered what it was that the young kitchen maid saw in the slimy git. He barely knew Thomas, but he knew enough to know that the footman was trouble, especially considering that his closest ally was Miss O'Brien.

"I don't know, Daisy, he went outside to have a smoke," the housekeeper muttered, clearly feeling the same exasperation that was shared between Anna and Bates. "Why don't you sit down and rest your feet and have a cup of tea?"

The poor girl looked confused, torn between wanting to sit down and join them before Mrs. Patmore noticed she had gone missing, and wanting to find Thomas so she could continue her unhealthy worship of him. With one last strained look down the corridor, she reluctantly sat down.

Poor William looked even more miserable than he had when Branson first saw him at the table. "Think I'll go up—" he began to rise, but Mrs. Hughes put a firm hand on his shoulder and gave him an even sterner look, which soon had William sitting back in his chair.

"So Mr. Branson," Mrs. Hughes said cheerfully, attempting to raise spirits once more. "Tell me, how are you settling in now, after your first week at Downton?"

"Very well, thank you," he answered honestly, returning the housekeeper's smile to everyone at the table. "I appreciate the kindness you have all shared with me, in adjusting to life here."

Daisy finally turned her attention from the corridor and looked at him. "Where were you before?" She quickly added, "If you don't mind me asking," after Mrs. Hughes gave her a sharp look.

Branson smiled. "Ireland—Dublin, to be exact."

"Is that home?" Anna asked, before taking a sip of her tea.

"Aye," he answered, smiling at Daisy's giggle over his brogue. "My family has a small farm just outside of Dublin. My Mother can't abide city life; says it's all the bluster and bustle, especially now with everyone driving cars. I don't mind it so much though; when a neighboring farmer got a car, I begged him to teach me how to drive in exchange for free labor during the plowing season. I remember going to bed every night, aching all over from a long day's work, but it was worth it." His chuckle over the memory was joined by the others.

"So you always wanted to be a chauffeur?" William asked.

Branson shook his head. "No, I wouldn't say that. But I don't mind it—it suits me, at least for now."

"You sound just like Gwen," Anna murmured, a quick blush coloring her cheek at the realization of what she had said.

Branson's brow furrowed with confusion. He wanted to ask what she meant, but Daisy jumped in with her own question. "Where is Gwen? I didn't see her at supper."

"She's not feeling well," Anna said simply, before taking another sip, and hiding her face behind her cup.

"What's wrong—"

"Leave it be, Daisy," Mrs. Hughes sighed.

A slightly awkward silence fell across the table then, but thankfully Mr. Bates was able to rescue everyone by a quick change of subject. "I understand that Lady Sybil made quite an 'impression' at dinner tonight."

Anna's face lit up with a proud, glowing smile. "She was so excited. I only wish I could have been there when she walked into the room."

"Why, what did she do?" Daisy asked, her curiosity clearly piqued.

William seemed pleased to be the one to tell Daisy, since he had been upstairs in the dining room and had seen it all. "She came into dinner wearing trousers!"

"William!" Mrs. Hughes hissed.

Daisy's jaw dropped and her eyes widened. "Go on; you're teasing me, surely?"

William ignored the stern look Mrs. Hughes was sending his way, his grin growing at Daisy's surprise. "It's true! Everyone was stunned into silence, even her Ladyship, the Dowager Countess!"

"That's enough, William," Mrs. Hughes declared with some finality. "There will be no more talk about Lady Sybil and her frock."

Mr. Carson entered the kitchen then, and they all rose like soldiers greeting their general. "Well you lot are still up, I see. It's quite late."

"We were just having a cup of tea," Anna explained. "We'll be retiring soon."

Carson nodded his head in approval, before turning his attention to Mrs. Hughes and asking to speak with her in private; all Branson could hear was it had something to do with the wine ledger. As soon as the butler and housekeeper were gone, Daisy immediately turned to Anna, her voice hushed as she asked, "So Lady Sybil came down to dinner, dressed like his Lordship?"

Anna couldn't help herself, and immediately burst out laughing at Daisy's question. Even Branson couldn't help but chuckle at the kitchen maid's misunderstanding of William's description of Lady Sybil in "trousers". "No silly," Anna giggled. "Not like a proper gentleman's suit, but…oh how to describe it—like a dress, only instead of a flowing skirt, there are trouser legs."

Poor Daisy still looked confused. "You mean there's a skirt over the trousers?"

"No, no, there's no skirt over the trousers, simply that the material flows like that of a skirt…" her voice faded as she realized she still wasn't helping the kitchen maid understand. "Oh if only I had a picture, you could see what I mean—"

"Harem pants."

Everyone fell silent and turned to Branson, whose eyes were focused on the last bit of tea at the bottom of his cup.

"Hair-im pants?" Daisy asked.

Branson sighed and looked up from his tea. "Have you ever heard of the 'Arabian Nights', Daisy? Did anyone ever tell you the story about Aladdin or Ali Baba?"

A sudden realization washed over Daisy. "I think I once heard Mrs. Patmore say that name, when talking about sesame seeds. She also said something about genies and magic carpets, like out of a fairy tale. Oh! You mean Lady Sybil looked like a princess from one of those stories?"

Branson couldn't have put it better. "Exactly."

Daisy was beaming, so happy that she finally understood what William and Anna had been talking about. Her happiness was short-lived, however, when Mrs. Patmore's shrill voice echoed around the kitchen, demanding to know where in the name of everything holy she had disappeared to. Without another word, Daisy leapt to her feet and immediately ran in the direction of the booming voice, while the others winced in sympathy for the tirade of complaints they knew was coming her way.

Anna turned to Branson then, her expression filled with curiosity. "How did you know what Lady Sybil was wearing?"

Branson swallowed the sudden lump that had risen in his throat and he quickly downed the leftover contents from his teacup. "I…I was just passing the drawing room window on my way back from the garage, when I caught the sight of her, entering. That's all." He looked up and caught Bates' gaze; the valet knew as well as he that the windows facing the drawing room were nowhere near the garage. Thankfully, he didn't say anything, nor did Anna.

"Well, as Mr. Branson said, it has been a long day. Best we all get some rest before the next," Bates announced, rising from the table. William and Anna rose as well, bidding one another and Branson goodnight, before turning and heading up the stairs towards the servant quarters. "And I believe you wanted this, Mr. Branson?" Bates asked, holding out the servant's paper, the very thing that had brought Branson into the kitchen in the first place.

Branson smiled and thanked the valet, but before Bates released the paper, he caught hold of Branson's gaze and murmured in a low voice, "I'm sure she was a vision."

He felt all the color drain from his face at Bates' words, but the valet only smiled kindly, released his hold on the paper and without another word, turned and began making his slow ascent up the stairs.

A vision? That hadn't been the word that had first come to his mind upon seeing her enter the drawing room with a proud smile and cheeky air all about her. Giddy, girlish, mischievous, different—yes, perhaps that was the word that best described her above all others.

Lady Sybil was different; different from her sisters, different from any aristocratic lady he had ever seen, different even from any girl he had ever known. She had been beaming when she exited the dressmaker's shop earlier that day, hugging her parcel as if her life depended upon it. When he helped her into the car, she gave him a cheeky little grin, as if the two of them were partners to some hair-brained scheme. Her delight was catching, because all he could think about during the drive back to Downton was what design the seamstress had created for her. Her excitement radiated everywhere, and soon he too was eager to see how the others would respond upon whatever revelation lay within that parcel. It was almost like that day he drove her to Ripon by herself, and had given her those pamphlets.

Just as she cuddled her parcel, he remembered how she reverently held those pamphlets, as if he had given her the greatest treasure in the world. Any girl seemed to go mad over receiving a new frock, no matter what her social class. But how many treated a few pieces of paper as if they had been handed spun gold?

Indeed; Lady Sybil was different. And all the proof was there when she walked into that room, finally revealing the mysterious frock she had been beaming about.

He was glad he had decided to sneak around the other side of the house to catch a glimpse of her. It was a great risk, he knew; Mr. Carson would not approve at all, let alone his Lordship. Why in heavens name was the chauffeur skulking about? But thankfully no one did see him—but he did see her.

She waltzed into the room, looking smug and playful and making an obvious show of her legs in her blue harem pants. He half expected the Dowager Countess to have a fit of the vapors at the sight. The entire room seemed speechless, and all they could do was gape while she haughtily put her hands on her hips and tilted her head, clearly satisfied by the reactions she was receiving.

…And all he could do was grin—after he got over his own initial surprise, of course.

He had seen pictures in papers and magazines of women in such frocks, but never on another person, and never on someone like—

Well, needless to say, the frock, the design, everything…it all suited her perfectly.

He shut the door to his cottage and immediately slumped into his arm chair, the paper draped over his leg. Try as he might to concentrate on the printed words, he knew his mind would not be able to properly focus. Perhaps Mr. Bates was right to use that word: vision; because his head was still reeling with vision after vision of Lady Sybil…giddy, girlish, mischievous Lady Sybil…twirling about in her harem pants, standing and smiling proudly…because she was different.

The thought brought a proud smile to his face, and a swell to his heart. Surely that was from pride as well…

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><p><em>I hope people are enjoying this...feedback is appreciated, so please take some time to let me know what you think! Thank you!<em>


	10. A Mysterious Letter

**Chapter Ten**

Branson—

Please forgive the "mysteriousness" to the delivery of this message, but I thought it best to not reveal as much as possible to Anna. No doubt you are just as confused as she is by the delivery of this strange package, which as you can see are recent copies of various newspapers from over the past few weeks.

The reason for this is simply put; I need your help. And…I feel I can trust you with being discreet. Oh Lord, how "cloak and dagger" this must all sound? Forgive me; I'll get right to the point.

Gwen, who I consider a dear friend, has dreams of leaving the position of house maid and becoming a secretary. This you must absolutely be discreet about, although a bulk of the staff from what I understand already knows her desire to leave service. Still, I do not wish to bring her any further embarrassment, so please, don't say anything, even to Anna.

I've been trying to help Gwen; I even put myself down as her reference. But part of the problem is finding a place for her to apply to. Since you travel back and forth to Ripon and the other nearby villages, I was wondering if you have heard anyone say anything about needing a secretary? Or, and this explains the papers, could you help me with finding any recent advertisements? I apologize if this puts you in an awkward position; it's simply…I have no experience or knowledge in looking at advertisements, so I'm not quite sure where to start. But if you can help me and show me how, then I won't bother you further, I promise!

I know we do not know each other very well, but I couldn't think of anyone else who would understand. You seem to sympathize with the struggles women face on issues of work and equality, and Gwen so dearly wants to become a secretary and I dearly want to help her in any way that I can.

So will you help? I promise I will not pry or question you further if your answer is no, but please give me your answer later today—I will be requesting the car to take me visit Cousin Isobel; I should be alone, so you can give me your answer then.

Thank you Branson, at the very least, for your discretion on the whole matter.

—Lady Sybil


	11. 1913: A Second Letter to Martin

_BIG HUGE THANK-YOU'S to everyone who has written a review, sent me a message to tell me what they think, or who have just taken an interest enough in this story by wanting to be updated when I update it! :oP I truly appreciate your thoughts, so thank you again for taking the time to do that. And without further ado..._

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><p><strong>Chapter Eleven<strong>

Dear Martin,

First and foremost, thank you for the inclusion of the political cartoon clippings in your last letter! They'll cheer one of my walls up in no time. Thankfully I was by myself in the garage when I saw them; otherwise my laughter would have been frowned upon by several, not just the housekeeper.

How were you able to get away with sending them? The butler here has a vice-like fist around the single servant's paper, and even when he's finished reading it, he expects anyone who takes it to bring it back, as unspoiled as he left it. Either the butler there doesn't care, or, and far more likely—you're using the infamous "Branson Wit" and cutting some corners. Just be sure it doesn't get you into any trouble.

Speaking of the new job, I'm sorry to hear that it's not what you were expecting. I will say based on how you described Sir Collins and his family, he sounds like a good employer—but no chauffeur wants to spend a bulk of his time driving a tractor. But don't go and hand in your notice yet; I hope you were joking when you wrote about that. I know I'm one to talk, but at least I waited it out at Lady Henley's for an entire year, so unless your misery goes beyond boredom, I suggest you do the same.

It sounds like things are fairly quiet there, in your corner of Devon. The same is true here, although I have been seeing some posters in the village for upcoming speakers and meetings in regards to various English Liberal candidates. I may attend one or two if I have the chance, just to hear what they have to say, but I think if I truly want to hear a good Socialist speech, I'll have to go to York. I know your interest in politics isn't the same as mine, but I thank you for humoring me—it's just good to talk to a fellow Irishman about such things.

I also thank you for your…shall we say, "rich detail" of the ladies in your acquaintance? I suppose I don't have to worry about my cousin sitting idle and being lonely! It's just as well; remember the pretty red-haired maid I had mentioned in my last letter, the one who I said was going to be leaving Downton soon? I had joked about "sending her your way" to Devon, but I understand now that it's not another position in a house that she's looking for. No, she in fact wants to leave service to become a secretary! More shocking things have happened, but don't mention that to the butler here. But in all seriousness…it's actually quite inspiring. She's managed to take typing and correspondence lessons through the mail, and I recently learned that she saved all her wages last year in order to buy her own typewriter! She keeps it locked up in her room, although from what I understand, apparently all the staff knows about it, thanks to the shady workings of a Miss O'Brien, her Ladyship's maid.

Oh Martin, some of the people you described in your letter would be in "good company" with these two snakes here: Thomas, the first footman and first-rate git, and O'Brien, who in my mind is even more dangerous; she's like the serpent in the Garden of Eden, whispering things in her Ladyship's ear. She certainly has some pull on her Ladyship, for I've even overheard his Lordship mutter against the woman. But her Ladyship won't budge, so until the veil is lifted from her own eyes, I fear that Miss O'Brien is here to stay.

It's enough to make _me_ consider taking lessons in typing and correspondence, if it means getting away from the likes them! Not that I'm giving any serious consideration for handing in my notice, although who knows after working beside them for several years. I swear, the head housemaid, Anna—she has the patience of a saint to have put up with the likes of them for that long! But thankfully, as a chauffeur, my dealings with either one of them is minimal, although it clearly bothers O'Brien that I'm allowed to stay for meals every so often. That may be reason enough to stick it out!

But the big news I have to share does in fact deal with Gwen, the maid who wishes to become a secretary. One of the Earl's daughters put herself down as a reference for Gwen, but needed help in…well, "studying" advertisements. It was quite amusing actually; one morning at breakfast Anna gives me this strange bundle with a letter attached to it. I take the bundle back to my cottage, unwrap it, and find all these old newspapers. Unsure what to make of it all, I read the letter, and learn that the Earl's daughter wants me to help her by going through the papers and seeing if I can find anything about people or offices looking for secretaries. It sounds strange to someone like you or me, who have gone through papers many times in our past, seeking work, but she was basically asking for help in understanding "how" to look up advertisements! I confess, I found myself chuckling when I finally realized what it was she was asking…but it did give me pause; if you've never had to look for work before, how do you begin in seeking it? And besides, there's something very…admirable…about how she's determined to help Gwen fulfill her dream. I can't think of many aristocratic ladies willing to do that, can you?

Anyway, I was able to help, at least a little. I think she asked for my help because, as the most recent addition to the staff here, she naturally assumed I had the most recent experience in looking up advertisements. That makes sense, don't you think?

Well, I'm starting to run out of space on the paper, so I best end this letter and send it on your way. And while I appreciate the sentiment about mentioning my name to some of your new "lady friends", I reassure you that it's not necessary. No, I'm not trying to be humble, and no, I do not have a sweetheart, it's just—well, it's just not necessary. Look after yourself and give my love to the family when you next write to them.

God bless you!

Tom


	12. Sybil's Diary IV

_Did anyone else think it was strange that Branson didn't appear in Episode 5 of season 1? It made perfect sense to me to have him involved, especially considering how joyful he was when Gwen got the job at the end of the series-these next few chapters deal with the events of Episode 5...they were a lot of fun to write and I hope you enjoy them! THANKS AGAIN FOR ALL THE WONDERFUL FEEDBACK! It is very much appreciated..._

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><p><strong>Chapter Twelve<strong>

June 23, 1913

At last! After weeks of scouring newspapers and listening in on random conversations in the villages, good fortune has finally come our way! A reply arrived at Downton today from an office in Malton, very keen on interviewing Gwen! I confess it was a little "back-handed"; I wrote to the office and applied for the position on her behalf without telling her…until this morning. She had a right to be furious with me for meddling in her affairs, but thankfully she wasn't. I think she was simply too shocked by the revelation of it all, but she hasn't given up and I certainly haven't given up, and so tomorrow we make our journey to Malton!

Yes…tomorrow. Even as I write this I can't believe how little notice Gwen was given; what if the letter had arrived a day later? Oh but I won't dwell on that, the important thing is that everything goes off without a hitch as I have planned…which as always, is slightly easier said than done. But I have sat long and hard and thought this through, and I think it can very well work!

We'll go with our original plan; Gwen will take a turn in the early morning while she and Anna are making the beds. I told her to do this while in my room, for I will make sure I am nowhere near my chamber between breakfast and nine o'clock. Gwen will then excuse herself to her room to "rest", and upon arriving will find the dress I gave her for her interview. This is where it gets tricky…

I spoke with Papa tonight, purposefully staying up late so I could catch him alone, before he retired. I asked to borrow the governess cart, telling him that I wanted to drive it to Malton to visit old Mrs. Stuart—which I will do, while Gwen is at her appointment. I didn't think this would be a problem, and it wasn't, not the part about me going to Malton, but Papa didn't like the idea of me driving the cart. He thinks Malton is being overrun with more and more motors, so I think he's afraid that the cars will naturally spook the horse, but Dragon is made of sterner stuff, he'll be fine.

Papa did ask, "why not have Branson drive you?", and for what seems like the millionth time, I've found myself asking that same question—_why not_ have Branson drive us? He's just as much a part of this scheme with Gwen as I am. Ever since I sent him that letter and those newspapers, he's been keeping his part of the bargain, circling various clippings and stuffing them into envelopes for Anna or Gwen to deliver to me—oh Lord, they probably think something illicit is going on! I should be horrified at the thought…but I can't stop giggling. I wonder if Branson would laugh at the idea? I wonder if he ever thought how it must look? No…I doubt it; his mind is far too serious to think about such silly, girlish daydreams—not that I daydream about such things, mind you! I—why am I even writing this?

Ignoring those last few lines, I have been wondering why I didn't take Papa's offer, and ask Branson to drive us; it would certainly make things easier. But I think I'm doing the right thing, insisting that I drive the cart and have Dragon lead us to Malton; besides…just in case anyone begins to suspect anything, it would be wise to have "an alibi" near…

I haven't told Branson yet, I haven't had the chance to really. I hope to catch him tomorrow, after breakfast, while Dragon is being hitched to the cart and Gwen is making herself ready. Hopefully I can catch him in the garage, and let him in on my plan. I have no idea what to ask him to say in case anyone does wonder about Gwen and mine's whereabouts, but hopefully no one will. I confess I do feel a little guilty; both for asking him to lie, and for not including him on our "adventure" to Malton. I think he will understand, at least I hope he will. I can't thank him enough for everything he has done to help me—I mean, to help Gwen. Whenever he traveled to the villages, he kept looking and listening for any sign or conversation about an office seeking a secretary, and without his brief tutorial on how to look up advertisements in the paper on the way to Cousin Isobel's…I would probably still be staring at the bloody thing and scratching my head like an idiot. So yes, Branson deserves a great deal of credit for everything that has been achieved thus far. I just hope he won't be too annoyed with my interfering once again. What must he think of me? Probably something along the lines of, "Oh God in heaven, there's that Crawley girl again, what does she want this time?" I hope he doesn't ever think that, but I suppose I can't blame him if does. I have been a bit of a meddlesome bother.

Good Lord, I just noticed the time! I best get some sleep; it will be a very busy day tomorrow. But I do have a good feeling, truly! Gwen's dream is in sight, I just know it, and as I reassured her earlier, I am _not_ giving up!


	13. Lady Sybil's Grand Scheme

_A POV scene that dares to ask, "what was Branson doing while Sybil and Gwen were sneaking out to Malton for Gwen's interview?" That was certainly the question on my mind while watching Episode 5. Ok, I confess, this was my favorite chapter to write (so far!), so I hope you enjoy it too! Please let me know what you think! THANKS!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirteen<strong>

He didn't like it. If truth be told, he hated it. But he also hated the fact that he could see her logic behind the scheme: stay behind; keep anyone from wondering where Lady Sybil and Gwen have disappeared to. Yes, it did make sense to have someone there to do those things…but why did it have to be him?

He had been in the garage, preparing to do some work on the engine of the Rolls-Royce, when he heard footsteps crunch on the gravel just outside. "Is it for me William? Does someone want the car—"

"No, actually, but I do need to speak to you urgently."

Branson nearly banged his head on the lid of the bonnet, rising so fast at the sound of Lady Sybil's voice. He was surprised to see her there. Normally William, or another lad from the house would come and fetch him if the car were needed; but she wasn't here for the car.

"Milady…" he looked around quickly to see if anyone could spy them talking, but it looked like the others were all busily working inside. "Is something the matter?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Lady Sybil reassured. Just as he had done, she also did a quick look around, before continuing in a hushed voice. "Gwen received a reply, to an office in Malton—she has an interview today at 10 o'clock!"

Branson felt his face light up with a smile at her words. He had really gotten into Lady Sybil's "scheme" so to speak, of helping Gwen find a job. When he wasn't busy with the cars, he would sit down and go through her collection of old papers, seeing if there was anything of interest in the advertisements. He had learned about the Malton position through one of last week's papers, one which Lady Sybil had confiscated from his Lordship's library when she was "convinced" he was finished with it.

"That doesn't give us much time," he declared, shutting the bonnet and reaching for his livery jacket.

"Oh no! No, you misunderstand," Lady Sybil whispered, before doing another look around to make sure no one could hear them. Branson stared at her, confused. "I won't be needing the car," she explained.

He was even more confused now. "But…how will—"

"I'm taking the governess cart; they're hitching Dragon up as we speak. Gwen is upstairs, hopefully in her room and getting ready by now; she's going to tell everyone that she's ill, which will provide the perfect excuse in getting her away for a few hours. I'll drive the cart—I've already told Papa that I'm visiting an elderly lady in Malton, which I will do while Gwen has her interview—and then we'll be back in time for tea, simple as that! Don't you think?"

He was speechless. He hadn't given Lady Sybil the proper credit when it came to plotting and scheming. "You're…you're driving a horse and cart to Malton?"

She nodded her head, her excitement over the whole plot lighting up her face. "What, you don't think the daughter of an Earl knows how to lead a horse?"

Branson attempted to smile at her joke, but his brow only furrowed further. "Are you sure…I mean, beggin' your pardon, milady, but…are you sure that's safe?"

Lady Sybil let out a rather unladylike groan, and folded her arms across her chest, her blue-gray eyes rolling ever so slightly. "Oh not you, too. I'm perfectly capable of driving a cart; I've done it before—"

"Beggin' your pardon, milady, but when was the last time you drove a horse and cart through Malton?" he interrupted. "I was there only a few days ago with his Lordship, and there were motorists who have more in common with maniacs than gentlemen—"

"Oh, you sound just like Papa," she grumbled.

Branson was a little taken aback by that, but he couldn't help but grin slightly. "Well, his Lordship has good sense. Why take a horse when I can—"

"Because I need you here!" she hissed, her face growing pink with exasperation. She looked around quickly, as if afraid someone had overheard her, but they were still alone.

In the short time he had gotten to know Lady Sybil Crawley, he had never seen her come close to losing her temper…or turn that particular shade of pink. His grin only widened, and he couldn't help but adopt a bit a smug pose, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back against the car, one ankle folded in front of the other. "Alright, I'm listening…"

Her eyes narrowed slightly at his stance, but she took a deep breath and lifted her chin ever so slightly, trying once more to appear haughty and in control. "It makes perfect sense to have someone here, someone who can, well…keep others from wondering where either Gwen or I have gone."

"Hmm…but how am I supposed to convince them that Gwen is in her room, when I'm not allowed anywhere near the maid's quarters? Or that I know about you driving the cart to Malton when theoretically, you and I have not had this conversation?"

Lady Sybil's mouth fell open, and Branson bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the baffled expression on her face as she tried to think of a sharp retort.

"Well…you're clever, I'm sure you can think of something," she coolly replied, tilting her chin a hair higher than before. "Look…make fun all you want, but it does make sense to have someone here, someone who I can trust to keep things calm in case anyone becomes suspicious."

The swell Branson had felt in his chest all those nights ago when he had seen her in her harem frock, struck once again. The smug smile melted slightly to one of genuine tenderness. "Aye, at the very least, you can count on me for that."

The pink color of Lady Sybil's face only seemed to darken, and she quickly lowered her gaze, as if examining the straps of her shoes. "Good," she murmured, before clearing her throat and lifting her eyes once more. "I just wanted to let you know—so you would understand why—"

"Why I'm being abandoned here while you girls get to have all the fun."

Her eyes widened at his words, and she opened her mouth to protest, but quickly closed it when she saw the smirk spreading across his face once more. He couldn't help it, he had to tease her…at the very least to save them both from the somewhat awkward moment they had just found themselves in.

She made a gesture as if she was going to swat his folded arms, but it only earned her a deep chuckle from his chest. "You know, I was going to say I would miss you, but I don't think I will now," she huffed.

He sobered slightly at her words, although there was still a teasing air in his voice when he said, "you would miss me?"

Lady Sybil's face darkened even further, her eyes wide and her mouth open. "I…I mean…I meant _Gwen_ and I would have missed…oh!" He couldn't help it, no matter how hard he tried; he couldn't help laughing at her flustered state. She let out a sound that could only be described as an outraged shriek, and then proceeded to throw her small fist at his chest, which only caused him to laugh harder as he attempted to duck from her oncoming attack. Despite herself, she was laughing too, and the both of them may have continued like this if a deep voice hadn't cleared his throat to get their attention.

"Milady?"

Both of them immediately froze, and the world around them came crashing back.

He had forgotten himself. Branson straightened his back and purposefully moved away from Lady Sybil, who had spun around to face Lynch, the Downton groom, who was standing in front of her and who had come to let her know that both Dragon and the cart were ready.

He opened the bonnet of the car once more and proceeded to act as if he had been tinkering with the engine this whole time, not daring to look up and meet Lynch's gaze. Lady Sybil muttered her thanks, and an awkward silence fell over the garage as the groom finally turned and slowly walked away.

The awkwardness didn't lessen even after the last of Lynch's footsteps could be heard.

"Well…I…I best be going," she finally managed to say. "Thank you for your understanding, Branson."

"You're welcome, milady," he replied, his eyes never once leaving the engine. There was another pause, before he finally began to hear the retreating sound of her footsteps upon the gravel drive. Only then did he lift his eyes to watch her retreating back.

He would keep his end of the bargain. He would do as she asked, even though he wasn't comfortable with the thought of her driving a horse and cart while others would be driving cars around her. But she was a fully capable woman, he continued to remind himself. Fully capable of taking care of herself…and leading a horse…and applying for secretarial positions…and diligently plotting an elaborate scheme to get a housemaid to a job interview in another village…

Was there anything she couldn't do? He was beginning to wonder…

The day passed slowly; too slowly in his opinion. Neither the Earl nor the Countess nor either Lady Mary or Lady Edith needed the car. He wasn't even summoned by her Ladyship, the Dowager Countess. He spent a large bulk of the day in the garage, working on the various cars, trying to keep his mind from wandering to a certain lady and her secret journey, but it eventually became impossible, especially when the afternoon hours crept by and there was still no sign of the horse and cart.

_"…And then we'll be back in time for tea, simple as that! Don't you think?"_

He should have forced her to walk inside the kitchen and throw endless pinches of salt over her shoulders for uttering those words. He did eventually wander into the kitchen himself, hoping to have something distract him from his growing anxiety, but instead he happened upon Mrs. Patmore, practically snapping at her Ladyship about whether or not to create a special dessert for an upcoming guest. Poor Daisy attempted to smooth things by volunteering to read the recipe to the old cook, but it only made the situation worse—for Daisy.

Bates and Anna were busy mending, William was polishing the silver, and frankly he didn't care to be around O'Brien or Thomas. He found himself once more in the garage, but after the third attempt at loosening the same bolt on one of the engines, he knew it was pointless.

Something had happened; even by way of horse and cart, it shouldn't have taken them this long to return. The sky was beginning to darken and he knew that the family would be preparing to have dinner soon—which also meant that if they hadn't noticed yet, they would surely realize that Lady Sybil wasn't back.

What was he going to say? She had asked him to keep everyone calm, to ease any suspicions, to keep them from wondering if her disappearance and Gwen's sudden illness were linked in any way, shape, or form. But how exactly was he supposed to do that? That was the one gaping hole in Lady Sybil's entire plot.

_"Well…you're clever, I'm sure you can think of something." _He shouldn't have teased her so, because she had given him far too much credit. Besides, how could he think of clever excuses when the whole time his mind was reeling with worry?

What if something had happened to Dragon? What if the cart got stuck in a ditch? What if they had been seized by thieves? His jaw tightened and his fists clenched at the very idea. Oh God, what if they had somehow been overturned, and were now lying trapped beneath the heavy thing and no one could hear them cry for help? He would never forgive himself; he shouldn't have listened to her, he should have insisted that she let him drive her and Gwen to Malton, why in heaven's name was he still standing there?

He grabbed his livery jacket and climbed into the Renault, not caring if someone looked outside and noticed him driving off without being summoned. He didn't care if he spent the entire night driving up and down every road between Downton and Malton, he couldn't sit there and wait any longer, he had to know they were alright; he wouldn't be able to rest until he knew she was safe.

He had just started the car and turned the headlights on, when two slovenly figures, suddenly illuminated by light, let out a soft shriek.

Branson couldn't believe his eyes. "Gwen? Milady?"

There they stood, the very women he had been about to go and search for…dripping in mud.

"Turn off the lights!" Lady Sybil hissed, her voice laced with impatience and exhaustion.

He didn't need to be told twice. He turned off the engine and leapt out of the car, rushing over and taking in the sloppy sight of them. "What in God's name happened?"

"Oh it was horrid," Gwen groaned, her voice slightly out of breath. "Dragon cast a shoe not too far outside of Malton; we couldn't find a smithy and had to walk back the whole way."

Branson's eyes kept flying back and forth between Gwen and Lady Sybil, the shock still apparent on his face every time he took in the sight of them. "And…how…?" he gestured to their mud-soaked attire.

"Dragon," Lady Sybil muttered. The way she said the horse's name reminded Branson of how one might refer to Satan, himself. "He and the cart are still down the hill; he stopped to eat some berries and to be quite honest, I was finished with leading him after that."

Gwen nodded her head. "No offense, milady, but I don't think I ever want to ride in another cart again, for as long as I live."

"The feeling is very mutual," Lady Sybil groaned, her hands reaching around to rub her lower back which clearly ached after their long journey back on foot. "You best get inside Gwen and get cleaned up before anyone sees you; hopefully they're all too busy preparing dinner to notice."

Gwen nodded her head and turned to go, but gave Lady Sybil one last smile, thanking her again for all her help, before rushing to slip inside the servant's door as fast as her mud-caked dress would allow.

A warm smile lit Lady Sybil's face as they watched Gwen disappear. "I think the interview went very well; she looked so confident when I met her outside!"

Branson turned his attention back to the mud-covered girl in front of him, the worry he had been feeling earlier drained completely, and now replaced by both wonder and humor at the present sight of her. Was it possible that she looked even more delightful now than all those weeks ago in her daring harem pants?

"What?" she asked, drawing him back from his thoughts. "Oh Lord, how ghastly I must look," she groaned. "I can only imagine Mama's shriek at the sight of me…and Papa's never-ending lecture on how I should have taken the car."

He tried to suppress his grin as much as possible, but it still managed to show. "Well, seeing as how you'll receive it from him, then there's no point in me doing the same."

She glared at him, before breaking into a smile of her own. "Thank you, Branson. That's very _kind_."

"You're quite welcome, milady," he said with a slightly mocking bow, to which she burst out laughing.

It had been a fair summer day, but the evening breeze did have a chill to it, and he noticed a slight shiver course through her body, no doubt made worse by her mud-soaked clothes. Without a second thought, he removed his jacket and placed it around her trembling shoulders, a gesture that caused them both to momentarily freeze in place.

"I…thank you," she murmured, pulling the jacket up a little tighter, her eyes immediately falling to her muddy shoes.

Branson said nothing; he simply nodded his head and took a step back. "You best be getting inside, milady, before anyone worries further about your absence."

"Oh dear," she moaned. "Did anyone ask? Do you think anyone suspects?"

He shook his head. "Until an hour ago none of the servants were saying anything, but even then no one seemed to put two and two between your absence and Gwen's illness."

"Well thank heaven for that," she sighed, relief flooding her voice.

He smiled and stuffed his hands inside his pockets, a casual gesture that he knew he or any servant should never do in front of a member of the house, but he didn't care. He was just glad that she had returned and, save for a layer of mud, was completely unharmed.

"Oh Lord!" she gasped, her face paling with horror. "I still need to tell Lynch about Dragon! He's still down the hill—"

"Don't worry about him, I'll take care of it," he reassured.

Lady Sybil nibbled her bottom lip, her face a mix of uncertainty and relief at perhaps not having to deal with the old horse any further. "Are you sure? You've already done so much—"

"Hardly," he laughed. "I've been sitting here all day, bored beyond all belief to be honest, wondering what's been happening, worried that the two of you were lying dead in a ditch somewhere—only to see you return covered in several layers of mud. Didn't I say you girls would have all the fun?"

"Oh yes, great fun indeed," she groaned sarcastically, before removing his jacket and thrusting it back into his laughing face. "You know, I don't feel so guilty now about leaving you to deal with Dragon." She emphasized her point by being most unladylike and poking her tongue out at him.

Branson made a gesture as if he were going to playfully grab her, to which she squealed and darted out from his grasp, giggling as she made a sprint towards the servant's door. "Go on then," he called. "Get cleaned up and put everyone's fears to rest."

She nodded her head, murmuring one last thank you and giving him one last smile, before darting inside and disappearing from view.

He stood there for a while, reflecting on the spot where she had stood, his hands in his pockets and his jacket draped through the loop one arm. Today was probably the most exciting day he had experienced in years, certainly the most exciting he had experienced since coming to Downton. If he had been told six months ago that not only would he be working in Yorkshire, but that he would also be involved in some hair-brained scheme concocted by the youngest daughter of his employer (the daughter of an Earl no less!) concerning an upstairs maid sneaking out in the middle of the day to attend a job interview to become a secretary…he would have thought that person to be an escapee from Bedlam! But here he was…doing just that…and now on his way to fetch a stubborn horse.

What would his Mother say if she could see him now? What would his cousin say? No doubt both their answers would contain the word "fool" multiple times. And maybe he was being a fool; maybe he shouldn't be letting himself get caught up in Lady Sybil's plots and schemes, maybe he should mind his own business and leave her to do the same.

But she was so infectious…so full of…of life!

How could any man not be drawn to that? How could any man resist?


	14. Sybil's Diary V

_Thanks to everyone for their comments and continuing support! I'm very happy that there are people out there enjoying this little story, and I hope you continue to do so! Feedback is always appreciated-thanks!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Fourteen<strong>

June 24, 1913

To say I was merely scolded is an understatement. Both Mama and Papa came rushing to my room the second Carson announced that I had returned. Anna had just arrived and was about to help me out of my muddy dress, when the two of them burst in, their eyes wide and only growing wider as they took in the sight of me.

Papa closed his eyes and began rubbing his temples, all the while shaking his head and muttering my name under his breath. Mama immediately launched into a tirade about making her sick with worry, as well as ruining a perfectly good dress that was "hopeless beyond repair". I couldn't care less about the dress, although I confess it was one of my more comfortable ones. It was very difficult, but I chose to keep my mouth shut and not say anything while the two of them criticized; I've long since learned I can get through them faster if I allow them the opportunity to get the wind out. Naturally Papa did what I knew he would do; _"for this very reason, I told you should have had Branson drive you,"_ he groaned, shaking his head like a disappointed tutor lecturing his pupil. I only muttered "Yes, Papa," with the hopes that he would soon stop.

And finally, they did. It took Mrs. Hughes' interruption, asking if they wished to delay dinner, which finally brought an end to our scene. _Thank you, Mrs. Hughes._ Mama and Papa both sighed wearily, before turning to leave, telling me to be quick and hurry so as not to delay anyone further.

Anna had a knowing glint in her eye; I believe she's suspected Gwen and me all along, but thankfully, as Gwen said, Anna's like a sister to her and can be trusted not to give anything away.

Wish my sisters were like that.

Mary insists that she's uninterested in Cousin Matthew (to quote Shakespeare, _"the lady doth protest too much"),_ which has only spurred Edith into setting her claws on him, although if truth be told, I believe it's only to rub the issue into Mary's face, versus feeling any genuine affection for him. They have been getting much worse, this "reckless hearts, screaming harpies" game that they play.

On Friday, we're having a special dinner guest: Sir Anthony Strallan. I know very little about him other than the fact that he's wealthy, the same age as Papa, and that Mama is hoping that both he and Mary will form an attachment. I sadly have the feeling that Mama is getting her hopes up for nothing.

Despite the patronizing lectures and being compared to my elder sisters when I "lack decorum", I am grateful I'm not the eldest, at the very least for this reason. To have my entire future depend upon whom I marry! It's absurd! A woman is more than just a pawn to be played in this silly game of title and fortune. I can tell its grating on Mary as well, for it seems that at every dinner, Mama makes some hint at a possible suitor.

What about the sharing of like minds and ideals? What about common interests and mutual respect? I don't think I could ever marry a man whom I didn't respect, and who I didn't feel respected me. I'm not saying we have to agree on everything, but at the very least to acknowledge my voice and opinions…

Such men are rare, it seems.

Poor Mary. I can't even begin to imagine what it must be like in her shoes; I'm so grateful I don't have to face such a decision, but at the same time I pity her. She would scoff at me if she knew I felt that way, before turning on her heel and walking with her head held high, declaring to the world that she's perfectly capable of making her own decisions and looking after herself. She can be very stubborn, my sister; sometimes to a fault.

Oh gracious, even after washing my hair, multiple times, and quite thoroughly—there are still flakes of dried mud falling from my head. I hope Gwen has managed to recover from our ordeal. I hope no one outside of Anna suspected anything and that she won't get into any trouble. Thank heaven for Branson—he claims he did little, but it relieves me to just know that someone was here, ready and prepared to defend us if need be.

Although he can be absolutely horrid! How I wanted to punch that smug smile off his mouth this morning—and later today, when he saw us in our ghastly state. He can be so arrogant! The way he folded his arms and leaned against the car, smirking at me—oh and what he said, about not lecturing me because Papa would—how I wanted to shove him into his own puddle of mud! Just because he knows how to drive a loud, sputtering car, he thinks he's needed every time I travel? Just because he's a man, he thinks a woman needs him to help her get about? I hope Dragon leads him on a wild goose chase, I hope he falls flat on his face in a…in a dung heap in trying to lure that silly horse back to the stables!

Oh Lord, how juvenile I sound! Like a little girl, throwing a fit because the bigger children won't let her play. The thought of poor Branson falling into a dung heap is so comical I can barely write…

…Now that I feel I have my senses under control once more (although just barely!) I will say, in all seriousness, and despite his annoying habit of getting a rise out of me…I am very grateful to have had his help today. And that was very kind of him…to offer me his jacket when I shivered earlier; of course, I would expect him to do that for any lady—he can be a gentleman, when he's not teasing me.

Mama wants our help tomorrow, with the final preparations for Saturday's flower show, and her patience with me is already thinner than this slip of paper on which I write. So I end this entry, praying that despite the mess Gwen and I found ourselves in, it was all for the best. I know she got the job, I just know it!


	15. Fools Together

**Chapter Fifteen**

The sounds of clapping hands and congratulatory wishes for old Mr. Moseley and his prize winning roses could still be heard as the heavy doors to Downton's tiny exhibition hall closed behind her. Sybil had been courteous, smiling and clapping beside her mother and father while her grandmother read the names of this year's flower show winners—when all the while she wanted to throw her head back and scream with frustration.

The flower show was always viewed as a great highlight for Downton, and everyone attended, from the Earl and Countess of Grantham to the lowliest of Downton's servants. Sybil loved it for the very reason that for this one afternoon, she could mingle and speak with Anna and Gwen and any of the other staff like a dear, old friend, rather than the daughter of their employer. Before her grandmother took the stage to announce the winners, Sybil found Gwen, standing a few feet away from the refreshment table, looking melancholy. "Have you recovered from our ordeal?" she had asked, a wide grin spread across her face. Now whenever she thought of their "adventure", Sybil couldn't help but laugh at the whole situation.

However, her smile began to fade as Gwen lifted her downcast eyes to meet her own—with absolutely no mirth within them at all.

"I got a letter this morning," she began to explain. It was clear that Gwen had learned to master the art of keeping her emotions in check, for Sybil could hear the raw disappointment in her voice that would surely bring anyone else to tears, and most likely had for Gwen earlier when she read what sounded like a message of gloom. "They are pleased to have met me…but I do not quite fit their requirements."

Sybil was speechless. She stared at Gwen, shocked by this sudden revelation. How could it be? When Gwen had emerged from the office, she looked so happy, she was beaming with confidence and joy, and everything she said about how the interview had gone had been positive. How on earth did she not fit their requirements?

"So you see…it was all for nothing."

Sybil felt her jaw clench at Gwen's finality. That stubborn streak that she and all her sisters had inherited from their grandmother flared up within her, and she reached out and gripped Gwen's hands in her own. "I don't agree," she fiercely declared. She would not give up; she would not allow Gwen to give up!

Gwen put on a sad smile, giving Sybil's hands a gentle squeeze before pulling her own free. "Only a fool doesn't know when they've been beaten." The way Gwen said those words revealed that they were a phrase she had commonly been told throughout her life. And hearing them only ignited that stubborn spark brighter.

"Then I'm a fool," Sybil proudly stated. "For I'm a long way from being beaten yet."

Gwen attempted a smile at Sybil's words, but anyone could tell that it was a humoring smile. This wasn't like last time, when she had been denied the job before even attending the interview. No, this hurt so much more.

Sybil set her jaw and told herself over and over again not to lose her temper and make a scene, although she wanted to stand up and demand why, after all of Gwen's hard work and everything the two of them had been through the other day, she hadn't been chosen.

"Sybil, dear?" her mother beckoned for her to come and stand beside her as Lady Violet climbed the steps of the stage to begin the program. She dutifully stood beside her mother, politely clapped every time a name was read, and attempted to at least look like she was paying attention, when all the while her mind was reeling between anger at Gwen's misfortune, and what could be done next to help the poor maid achieve her dream.

Anger and frustration were winning out. Sybil had to get outside before she snapped at someone, so once Mr. Moseley was named the winner of the Grantham Cup, she put on a smile, reached over to where he stood to shake his hand and offer him congratulations, and then turned and moved quickly to the doors before either of her parents noticed and tried to stop her.

The Downton flower show was very popular, and a majority of the villagers had gone to see it. Thankfully, this meant no one would hear her groan, or see her collapse against the wall, her head leant back and her eyes squeezed shut and her hands balling into fists…before she proceeded to stomp her boots and bang her fists against the wall, while unrecognizable grunts and groans of anger and frustration escaped her throat.

_Didn't quite fit their requirements_…what on earth did that mean? Were they looking for someone with more experience? Someone a little older? What did that mean, not fitting their requirements? Who did they think they were? Gwen had worked so hard! Sybil knew everything now; she knew about the typewriter, the lessons Gwen had been taking through the mail, the hours she spent after a long and hard day's work at Downton, to sit and educate herself on how to be a good secretary—if anyone deserved that job, it was Gwen! It wasn't fair!

She stomped her boots a little harder and let out a very loud, frustrated groan, ignoring the pain that seared through her fist as she banged it extremely hard against the bricks of the wall she was leaning against.

"Milady?"

Sybil gasped, her eyes flying open at the voice coming from in front of her; a voice that had an all too familiar Irish brogue.

"Branson!" she felt her cheeks flush and immediately began looking around her, wondering if there was anyone else who had seen her rather unladylike tantrum. "I…" she stammered, feeling very self-conscious that he had seen her when she thought no one could. "What…what are you doing out here? I thought you would be inside?"

"Hay fever," he explained, holding up a handkerchief somewhat sheepishly. "I didn't want to interrupt her Ladyship's speeches with my constant sneezing, so I stepped outside."

Sybil smiled slightly and nodded her head, but the chauffeur could tell she was far from alright. "What is it, milady? Is something wrong? Can I help?"

She groaned and pushed herself away from the wall. "Oh I wish you could, but sadly this is something far beyond our powers." She then proceeded to explain to him about the conversation she had just had with Gwen, how the poor girl had received a reply which, as Gwen theorized, had to have been written immediately after they had seen her…and how she had been rejected because she _"didn't quite fit their requirements"_. "And what does that mean, exactly?" Sybil demanded, her anger flaring up once more. "How could she _not_ fit their requirements?"

Branson said nothing. He stood by, his hands clasped behind his back, but his eyes intensely focused on her as she ranted and let out all of her frustrations. It began angrily, how she couldn't understand what was wrong with those people for not seeing how wonderful and valuable Gwen was to have, and then the focus shifted slightly, and she was ranting about the injustices placed upon women, whose options were so limited when it came to finding work. "And there are some businesses that refuse to hire women at all! _The Common Cause_ even states that women workers are often paid less than men who work in the same position!"

Branson's eyebrows rose at this. "You've been reading _The Common Cause_?"

Sybil bit her lip, only now realizing how long she had been raving. "I was able to purchase a copy the last time I was in York; it was recommended 'for further reading' on one of the pamphlets you gave me."

She saw something flash in his eyes at this revelation. It wasn't amusement, which was normally the light she saw twinkling there. Was it pride? Admiration? She felt her cheeks flush slightly at the thought and quickly turned away before he could notice. "Lord…how selfish I'm being; how silly I must sound."

She turned her head at the sound of his chuckle, surprised to see him grinning back at her. But it wasn't a mocking grin; far from it. That look he had given her was still there, although now she saw something else, as well. There was genuine tenderness within the greenish-blue depths of his eyes, and despite how warm her cheeks grew, she could not look away.

"Forgive me, Lady Sybil," he began, his smile never once fading. "But I don't think that's possible."

"What?" she asked, blushing at how breathless her voice sounded.

"You being selfish…or silly, for that matter," he chuckled.

"Oh, but I am!" she insisted, feeling utterly embarrassed about how she had ranted. "I'm making this all about me, when poor Gwen is the one who has to deal with the disappointment. I'm just throwing tantrums like a 'poor little rich girl', who knows nothing about the harsh realities of having to make a choice between working in an office to working in service and—oh Lord, I'm doing it again!" she groaned and covered her face in her hands, feeling utterly horrified at her behavior; and in front of someone whose opinion she had come to value very highly.

He didn't say anything. Sybil waited, but all she could hear were the sounds of the summer birds singing in the trees while men and women inside the exhibition hall rattled their teacups and saucers. Feeling foolish, she slowly lifted her eyes from behind her hands, to find him still standing there, and still looking at her with tenderness she didn't feel she deserved. Branson sighed, before squaring his shoulders slightly and looking directly into her eyes. "May I be frank, milady?"

Sybil swallowed the lump in her throat and quickly nodded her head. "Please do; in fact I would prefer that you always speak honestly to me." She knew he was limited in speaking so when others were around, but she hoped that in moments like this, when it was just the two of them, he would always feel comfortable telling her what he thought.

"I believe you truly care about Gwen—"

"Oh I do!" she insisted, and then closed her mouth, realizing she had interrupted. "Sorry; please go on."

He smiled and continued. "As I said, I do believe you care about Gwen…but I also believe that part of you…" he paused for a moment, as if trying to think of what words to use.

"Say what you feel, Branson, please; when it's just you and me, speak freely."

She noticed some color creep up into his own cheeks, but he cleared his throat and quickly continued. "Beggin' your pardon, but I think there's a part of you that…well, that envies her, am I right?"

Sybil's eyes widened and her mouth fell open, but no sound came out. Was it true? Yes…she knew that it was. There _was_ a part of her that envied Gwen; a large part of her. She knew nothing about being a secretary, she didn't even know if she would care for the kind of work that a secretary did—but she envied Gwen's _choice_. She envied the fact that Gwen could apply for such a position, could choose to leave the other if she so wished. Choices that Sybil knew she would never have, because despite the money and connections brought about by her father's title, there was a very specific and narrow role for her to play. In her diary she had pitied Mary for being the eldest and therefore having the greatest responsibility in finding a "worthy" husband by society's standards; but were her own responsibilities so different? She was still "the baby" in the eyes of her family, but one day…she too would have to don the mantle of "eligible bachelorette" and be expected to follow in her sister's footsteps down the aisle.

The thought made her stomach twist in disgust.

"Milady?" She glanced up and saw the concern etched across Branson's face. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to upset—"

"No, no, it's alright," Sybil reassured, taking a deep breath to steady her stomach. "You're right. I suppose I've been living vicariously through her and this experience. But it's true…I do envy Gwen; I envy…I envy her freedom." She looked up at him and saw his jaw tighten slightly at her words. No doubt he thought she had no right to complain when she had been born into a life of luxury and privilege.

"We all have roles we're expected to play, milady," he murmured. "I sometimes forget that even those at the top can find themselves oppressed by the system." Her brow furrowed with confusion at his meaning, but he continued as if the words hadn't been uttered. "Consider this; if Gwen had wanted to leave Downton so she could serve as a lady's maid for another family, would you still support her as fiercely as you do now?"

Sybil thought for a moment, imagining the scenario. To her, a job as a secretary sounded much more exciting and far more important than becoming a lady's maid like O'Brien. But that wasn't the point, or the reason behind Gwen's decision. "I would," she answered truthfully. "Because I want her to be happy."

The smile he gave her seemed to radiate such warmth, that any bitterness that had been gnawing at her before began to melt almost immediately. "I don't think you're selfish, milady. If anyone could accuse you of anything, it's that you care too greatly."

Did her heart just skip a beat? He was being too kind, she was not worthy of such praise.

"I'm sorry to burden you with all of this…"

"It's no burden, milady," he reassured. "I completely understand your frustration; I feel just as invested as you do in helping Gwen. But the important thing now is to not let this setback become the final word. She will probably need your encouragement now, more than ever."

Sybil nodded her head. "I did tell her that I completely disagreed with their assessment." She lifted her chin slightly, putting on her best haughty pose, a look that been truly perfected by her grandmother.

He grinned at this and a soft chuckle rose up from his chest. "An obvious sentiment based on your…um...'earlier display'?" he teased.

Sybil had to resist the urge to reach out and swat at him. Even though there didn't seem to be anyone else around, she knew that her family were only a few feet away, and could exit those doors at any second. "If you tell anyone about how I behaved—"

He laughed and lifted his hands in surrender. "I wouldn't dare cross you, milady; after the way you punched that wall, I pity anyone who found themselves on the opposite end of your fist."

She lifted her chin and gave another haughty pose, before losing herself in her own laughter. "Thank you, Branson," she managed to say when her giggles finally began to die down. "I think I needed some encouragement as well, and you certainly have helped me with that."

He bowed his head, his teasing smile transforming again to one of tenderness. "You are most welcome, milady. And tomorrow, I will resume my duties of scouring his Lordship's papers, seeking anything that sounds promising."

She returned his tender smile. "Gwen said earlier, 'only a fool doesn't know when they've been beaten'…but I haven't been beaten, Branson. And I won't let her be beaten either."

"Good," he murmured, his eyes shining again with that look she had noticed earlier. "We'll be fools together."

Her throat suddenly went dry, and her cheeks became very hot. The same thing seemed to have happened to him, for she noticed how he stiffened and immediately shifted his gaze to the ground. An awkward silence suddenly fell over them both, and Sybil was unsure what to say, although if truth be told, she knew what she wanted to say…that she was glad he would be a "fool" beside her.

"Sybil?"

Branson was the first to move. Without another word or glance, he turned and walked away, his hands firmly clasped behind his back as he made his way towards the car. Sybil quickly composed herself and turned to face Edith, who had just opened the door and was looking at her strangely. "Have you been out here the whole time?"

"No!" she answered a little too forcefully. "I…I think I had a bit of hay fever," she lied. "And I didn't want to disturb the show—"

"Never mind that," Edith interrupted. Her mood was clearly foul, and had been all day. No doubt it had something to do with how Mary had distracted Sir Anthony Strallan from Edith's attentiveness at last night's dinner. "I want to go home and we're leaving…now. Branson, start the car!" And without another word, her sister marched off towards the chauffeur who already had the engine running.

Sybil stared at the retreating back of her sister and sighed; poor Edith. If anything, her foul mood only made Sybil feel even more determined. "I'm far from being beaten yet," she whispered to herself. Ironically, happiness was a luxury that was not easily afforded for someone like herself or her sisters. But it could be for Gwen. And if truth be told, nothing could make her happier than seeing her dear friend achieve her dream.

Well…almost…

But _that_ could only be a dream.

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><p><em>Again, BIG thank you's to everyone who has provided feedback, and to everyone who continues reading this story! For you history buffs out there, <strong>"The Common Cause"<strong> was a British newspaper that supported the work of the National Union of Women's Suffrage Societies (NUWSS) and was first published in 1909. It quickly became one of the leading resources for the Women's Suffrage Movement in Great Britain. For more info, check out this website: .._


	16. 1914: Branson's Letter to Martin

_We move now to Part II, set in 1914-thanks again for everyone's feedback and interest in this story! I would like to dedicate this chapter to "A Forgotten One", who not only leaves wonderful comments, but who also loves Branson's letters to his cousin...I promised her one was on the way and here it is! Thanks again and happy reading!_

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><p><strong>Volume One, Part II<strong>

_Late Spring, 1914_

**Chapter Sixteen**

Dear Martin,

I was beginning to think I would have to send a search party to Devon! It's been over two months since I last heard from you, but I guess I wasn't alone in that sense; three days ago I received a letter from Uncle Michael, demanding that I abandon everything here and drive down to Devon to find you and put you on a boat back to Ireland. I noticed how he only demanded that _you_ return home; when it comes to me, I believe he thinks, "Good riddance". I wonder how he would feel, knowing that his only son is enamored with an English girl?

Well, I'm glad to hear that _that_ was the reason for your lack of correspondence, not because you were in some trouble. Although your father would argue that English girls _are_ trouble, but you know him better than anyone.

With the way you went on and on about her in your last letter, I feel I've already met her. If you will indulge me, I would like to share with you some of my favorite moments:

_Rachel is the most beautiful girl in the world! Her raven tresses would put the night sky to shame! Her eyes are deep and brown, like warm, chocolate pools. Her voice is musical and sweet; every word she utters is a lullaby…_

Good Lord, Martin, who knew you were such a poet?

In all honesty, I'm not making fun…well, not too much. I hope you know me well enough that when I tease, it shows that I care. But in all seriousness, she sounds lovely, and no man could doubt the level of passion you feel for this woman…

Now will you get the courage up and finally ask her to join you for a walk? Truly Martin, if you don't speak to her, if you don't attempt to step in and make yourself known, you'll miss your chance…and some other git will be courting the lovely housemaid who's stolen your heart.

Alright, you can stop your lecturing; trust me, I can hear you all the way up here in Yorkshire. I know what you're thinking—_who do you think you are? Have you told that suffragette everything that you've written about to me?_ The truth is…not entirely. But in my defense, I have at least spoken to her! She and I have met on several occasions, and I do believe we are good friends. By speaking to her, I've learned we have more in common than I originally thought; we share books, talk about politics, why just the other day she and I atten—I mean, _ran into each other_, at a Liberal rally in Ripon!

I'm laughing to myself right now, because I know you couldn't think of anything drearier. Not your Rachel's cup of tea you think? No, I suppose attending a rally and listening to some politicians spout and spew speeches like a bunch of angry crows isn't the sort of thing a man would take a lady to if he were hoping to court her. But…you should have seen her face. The awe in her eyes, the excitement in her smile as she cheered for the speakers she approved, and booed for the ones she didn't. Her father doesn't approve of her interest in such things, but he should—he should be glad he has a daughter who cares.

And it wasn't as dull as you may have thought. We ended up having to leave before it finished, as the crowds were starting to get a little rough. There was quite a bit of shoving going on, more so than I care for; who knew the English could be just as rowdy at a political meeting as an Irishman? But no, your cousin didn't start any brawls—I've learned my lesson on that count, long ago. Sorry to disappoint.

I dro—I mean, I _walked_ her home after that. And all the while, she kept going on and on about the rally, about the speakers, telling me her thoughts and feelings on what they had to say, and asking for my opinions. And before you scoff at me and tease that she barely noticed I existed, hear this: she said she hoped I would go into politics someday; she called it "a fine ambition".

I must be honest Martin…I don't think I've ever received a greater compliment.

I know it doesn't sound like much, but…try to see it from my perspective. No one has ever encouraged me like that before. No one has ever believed I would amount to much, not even my own mother, sadly. Don't misunderstand me, she's always telling me how proud I make her, but I know she doesn't think I'll become anything great; I'm a chauffeur to a wealthy earl in Yorkshire…a servant, a member of staff…just as I have been since the day I turned sixteen. I've always said I would be more someday, more than just a chauffeur—but I never truly _believed_ it until now.

There are so many things I want, Martin. Of course I want freedom for our people; I've always wanted that, and I was probably the first man in our family to stand up for women's right to vote, but…well, as I told her as I took her home, something needs to be done about this gap between the poor and the wealthy, and not just in Ireland, or in England, but everywhere. Oppression knows no boundary, and it preys on ignorance. Take his Lordship, the Earl of Grantham; truly, I don't think I've ever worked for a better man. But I know, sadly, that he's ignorant of the evils brought on by his class. I do not doubt that he would extend a helping hand in ways that would truly be beneficial to all, if he understood.

Now don't go and play the cynic on me, you're not your father. I suppose my time here at Downton has softened my cynicism a bit, but I've long since realized that for any good change to come, we have to work with our opponents, rather than ignore them.

Alright, I'll stop preaching my opinions; Lord knows you've heard them enough. But, in all seriousness my good cousin, talk to your Rachel. At least then you can quite agonizing about whether or not she fancies you or another lad on staff. And then you can write me back immediately, and crow over me about being the braver and better man.

I miss you, you old dosser; take care of yourself and don't leave it so long between letters next time.

God bless,

Tom


	17. Sybil's Diary VI

**Chapter Seventeen**

May 16, 1914

Oh I could just throttle them both! I knew they wouldn't understand; I knew they wouldn't approve! And they _wonder_ why I'm reluctant to talk about such things! OH I JUST WANT TO SCREAM!

...

…

…I think I may be able to finally sit down and write. An hour has passed since I started this entry. In my anger, I threw my diary across the room, nearly breaking the dressing table mirror; thank heaven I didn't, although seven years of bad luck would have been icing to the cake that was this whole evening.

After that horrid conversation at dinner, I had no desire to sit and speak to Granny, let alone Papa, so I feigned illness and made my retreat. I didn't even bother waiting for Anna or Gwen, I just started tearing at my dress, trying to get it off me, tearing at the strings of my corset, not caring if I ripped anything, just…I was—no, _still_ _am_, so angry! But I won't be throwing anything further. Poor Gwen came into my room just as my diary bounced off the dressing table and gave a screech that had Mrs. Hughes running down the hall, thinking she had found me lying dead on the floor. After calming them both down and apologizing ceaselessly, I was finally left to stew in peace. And so I have…and as I said, I think I can finally manage to write without destroying anything.

Although I am quite tempted to fling Granny's picture.

Oh what a disaster! And after a perfectly wonderful day! I have been begging Branson to take me to a rally for weeks. We were talking about the upcoming by-elections one day, and he began telling me about going and listening to some of the Liberal supporters in Ripon. I was so jealous! I wanted to know everything, who had said what, what specific issues were brought up. But no matter how detailed his descriptions were…it wasn't enough. I _needed_ to go and see a rally for myself, and that was when I began pestering him.

Poor Branson; I think I put him in a difficult position. He smiled at first when I asked him to take me, but I think he was humoring me. I was quite earnest and kept insisting, and I noticed that his smile was beginning to fade. I think he was torn; he knows how passionate I am, and I do believe that pleases him, which I must confess…pleases me, but at the same time he is responsible for my well-being when he drives me someplace…and what would people say, seeing the youngest daughter of the Earl of Grantham, attending a political rally?

Well, I can't be accused of not being resourceful. After a great deal of deliberation, I went to Mama and told her about the rally…although if truth be told, I phrased it more as a "meeting of speakers". Mama knows about my feelings when it comes to women's rights, and she tolerates my opinions much better than Papa; Mary says it's because of her "American blood". Well, I chose to do my best to appeal to that American sentiment, talking about what a wonderful opportunity this would be to see a "Democratic process" taking place. I then went for practicality, informing her that Branson had gone to such "meetings" on his days off, and could take me to this one, reassuring her the whole time that he would make sure I was safe. That seemed to do the trick, and so she agreed and even spoke to Branson herself, to let him know that he would be taking me to Ripon the next day.

I can't help but giggle as I remember the astonished look on Branson's face when he was called to Mama's study and given the news. I was standing nearby and beaming from ear to ear; he glanced my way and I simply gave him my most angelic smile…with a little lift of my eyebrows in that haughty way Granny is known for. I think he was impressed with my…shall we say, "powers of persuasion".

Oh it truly was exciting, hearing all the different speakers, hearing all the different issues! There were a few that I was absolutely abhorred by, and I must admit, I joined some of the crowd in "booing" their speeches. But there were so many others who inspired me, even if some in the crowd was against them, I couldn't help but cheer for more!

I didn't even notice I was being shoved around until Cousin Isobel appeared. I don't know how long she had been there, I don't know if she came to hear them or was just passing by. She did tell me that she agreed with the speaker who was urging the crowd to take a stand for women's rights, but she was far more interested in getting me out of there than listening to what the man had to say. I didn't want to listen to her, I wanted to stay and hear everything—but she was able to convince me once she mentioned Branson.

Even if it weren't his fault, Branson would be held responsible should anything bad have happened. Mama would defend him, I think; after all, she told him to take me. But as Branson had said, there's no point in taking such a risk, so with great reluctance, I must admit, I allowed him to steer me out from the crowd and return to the car.

Indeed, I could begin to see why Cousin Isobel was worried; some of the men were becoming rather disorderly. But I wasn't worried, not in the slightest; how could I be, with Branson beside me, his arm protectively around my shoulders...?

…

…It just occurred to me that it's been a year since he arrived. Exactly a year to this day! It's amazing when I think about how much has changed. I feel so much wiser now than I did before; not just about politics, but…about life! And it has been wonderful, having a friend to whom I can talk about these things with. Truly, I can't think of anyone else. I have acquaintances; other young ladies to whom I keep polite conversation with when we attend teas or luncheons. I have people I admire; fellow suffragettes to whom I have corresponded with through letters and occasional society meetings, when I have the opportunity to attend them. And then there are those who I would call dear friends, such as Anna and Gwen. But…there is only one other person to whom I would give the title "best friend"…and that's Branson.

I can be "me" with him; even though he calls me "milady", I do feel he can be open with me about…well, I hope about anything! I certainly feel that I can be open with him. I told him today that I dearly hope he goes into politics, that I do think it's a fine ambition.

He surprised me a little, and reminded me of Gwen, asking if I thought it was more of an ambition or a fool's dream. But then he revealed to me his deepest thoughts on the subject, telling me that while he supports women's rights and freedom for Ireland, he also wants to see a breakdown between the social classes, to see better and more equal opportunities for the poor. I could hear the passion in his voice, and it was filling my heart with such deep admiration, but he quickly stopped himself, as if remembering, sadly, that he was speaking to someone with the title "Lady" before her name. Even though I didn't accuse him of anything, he quickly defended Papa, insisting that he's a good man and decent employer—Branson has much higher regards for my father than I do at the moment. But I wasn't offended; I wanted him to remember that with me…he doesn't have to be "Branson the chauffeur"…but Branson, my friend—my best friend. So to lighten things, I teased him, and said "spoken like a true politician!" I was rewarded with that wonderful smile; truly, there are few things that fill me with such warmth as his smile.

I don't really blame Bates; he was the one that told Papa. And I don't really blame Mama either; like me, she knew that if Papa or Granny were aware, they wouldn't have allowed me to go. But…honestly, Papa still sees me as child! I'll be eighteen next month and heading to London for my infamous "coming out ball", but I know that even then, even after my presentation to society, he'll still insist that I don't know what's best for me! And Granny…the words she said tonight, about how my future husband will be the one to "provide me with opinions"…oh Granny, how backwards! She's even worse that those hecklers in today's crowd! Oh I need to calm down…I'm starting to feel the urge to throw something again…

Well I don't care what they say; I will go canvassing later this week, just before the by-elections. Thank heaven for Mary; I know she doesn't see eye to eye with me on everything, but she did defend my right to have opinions and to express them! Of course, Mary's declaration meant that Edith _had_ to counter it, but I think that had more to do with Mary than with my beliefs.

All right, I refuse to let tonight's dinner be how I remember this day! I refuse to let Papa and Granny's disapproval ruin everything. It was a good day…and wonderful day, truly. I attended my first political rally, I stood side by side with other men and women and voiced my opinions, and I got to experience all of it with someone I—

…With someone to whom I respect very much. Oh how dull that sounds, even though the sentiment is true. I'll say…with my best friend. I don't know if I could tell Branson that, I don't know if he thinks of me in the same way, but…well, I hope he does. And I hope he knows that's how I regard him. For truly, there is no one else I would rather have standing beside me.

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><p><em>Thanks for reading! Any feedback is appreciated, please let me know what you thought!<em>


	18. Sybil's Diary VII

_I know, *another* diary entry; I felt I needed something just before diving into the chapters that deal with the aftermath of the Count. Thos will follow this one in a day or two! Hope you enjoy this chapter leading into it, and thanks again for all the wonderful feedback! Please let me know what you think (or hope to see in the future!)_

_Also, on a historical note, I tried to find out the date of when the 1914 British by-elections took place, but there was very little detailed information that I could find, at least online; so if someone out there does know the date, and I got it wrong, I apologize!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Eighteen<strong>

May 22, 1914

A week has passed, and I've been on my very best behavior; I think I've even managed to forgive Granny for what she said. Let them all think that I've learned my lesson after that embarrassing confrontation at dinner. That way…no one will suspect what I'm really planning.

I am pleased to report that yes, I did go and canvass, despite Granny's hostility on the subject. Mama was at least able to soothe Papa around that idea (it also helped that I was with a group of women, as opposed to going and knocking on doors by myself). But I have a feeling that's as far as he is willing to bend on the matter. I don't think he's against the idea of women getting the vote, just the idea that is own daughter cares enough to get involved. And women and the vote are one thing in his mind…me having my own political beliefs in other areas is another. So you see, I have no choice! I _have_ to be deceitful; I've been _forced_ into this situation!

That still doesn't mean that I like it though.

I have mixed feelings, I must confess. I want to hear the counting of the votes tomorrow; I want to hear it desperately! I want to know how our side favored in the by-elections! But at the same time…the excitement to which I felt when I went to hear those speakers…it's not as strong. And I fear it has to do with the secrecy of it all.

This isn't like the time when Gwen and I plotted to get her to that job interview in Malton. Nor is it like sneaking Papa's old newspapers to Branson. Perhaps that's because…I am all alone in this venture.

I've told no one about my plan, not even Branson. After last week's dinner, I felt it too dangerous to get him involved. Papa immediately blamed Branson, despite Mama's confession that she had instructed him to take me. I suppose it makes sense; he can't fire his wife or daughter, but he can take out his anger and frustration on a servant. Poor Branson…I don't know if Papa reprimanded him or not; he may have had Carson do it. I have only had one opportunity to see him since last week's dinner, when he drove me to Ripon so I could go canvassing. Papa wouldn't have allowed me to go at all if I didn't have someone else accompany me. Thankfully Cousin Isobel had stopped by and told me she would travel with me, as she needed to go to the hospital to speak with Dr. Clarkson. That was all fine and good for my canvassing venture, but it did mean I was not be able to speak with him alone. I had hoped that maybe I could speak with him at the garage, but Papa has been the ever watchful eagle; he's always ordering the car for himself or Granny, making sure Branson is busy at all times.

So I have come to the conclusion that I need to make these next plans completely on my own; that way Branson will be safe and no one will suspect anything. I think it makes perfect sense, and I am quite proud of myself for planning this out. I approached Papa today in the library, trying my best to look girlish and innocent, asking him for permission to have Branson drive me to Ripon so I could attend a borstral charity meeting. Of course he was against the idea or at least against the idea of me going by myself. But through good humor, I was able to win the day; he teased me about all my causes being "stooped in gloom" and then asked why I was involved with such things, to which I honestly answered, that if everything were sunny, why meddle? He smiled at me then and said he agreed with me on that count, and then quickly changed the subject to next month, when we travel to London for the season.

I quickly began a conversation with him on that subject, wondering if he had noticed just as much as I that he hadn't said "no" to my request. We talked a little longer about London, and I must confess…I'm not as against the idea as I once was.

I haven't changed that much, meaning it's not the idea of attending balls and parties that has me warming up to the idea of going, but rather…seeing museums, going to concerts, and above all else, going to a proper _London_ suffrage meeting! Perhaps if I dance every dance at every ball, Mama will allow me this one treat, of going and hearing speakers such as Katherine Harley or Millicent Fawcett. To see those women, wearing their sashes, marching around Parliament, crying out for equality and justice! Oh to join them in their march…

Of course that's too much to ask for. No matter how hard I try to play into Mama's "American sympathies", not even she would allow me to do such a thing. But I can dream, can't I?

Perhaps Branson and I can sneak out one afternoon! I know he would take me, I don't even think I would have to beg! I hope Papa brings him along; he called Carson into the library just before I left, and I overheard them talking about who amongst the servants to bring to London. Carson always goes, and of course O'Brien and Bates will attend; sometimes one of the upstairs maids comes (I hope it's Gwen! She and I could scour offices together!), and in the past, Taylor has joined us; having been trained to drive in London, he knew all those streets like the back of his hand. That is perhaps Branson's only weak spot on the matter; he has no experience of driving in London, but I know he would be wonderful! Oh please, please, _please_ Papa, bring Branson with us! As much fun as the idea of the two of us sneaking out to see a march or attend a rally is…I just…it's hard to imagine going to London at all…and _not_ having him there with me.

Maybe I shouldn't attend the Count tomorrow…maybe it's too much of a risk?

But it's my first by-election! Or at least the first one to which I have living memory and care about and feel I understand what's happening! Who knows…after tomorrow, women may actually have the right to vote!

All right, that settles it, I _am_ going! I am determined! But I will be very careful, and not reveal anything until Branson gets us to Ripon. Oh Lord, I can only imagine the look on his face when he learns the truth! He'll probably look at me the same way he did when Mama called him into her study to tell him to take me to the rally last week! Absolute surprise…but slowly giving way to an impressed smile, wondering how I was able to pull this off! Oh I can't wait to surprise him; I can't wait for tomorrow!

I have such a good feeling…

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><p><em>Well we all know what happens next...<em>


	19. Waiting

_The next few chapters will explore the aftermath of the Count. Thanks again for everyone's support!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Nineteen<strong>

Hours had passed since the incident had taken place…yet his hands were still shaking. He wasn't much of a smoker, but if Thomas or O'Brien entered the kitchen in that minute, he would give them whatever money he had in his pockets to bum a cigarette.

As if that would calm his nerves.

He ran one of his trembling hands through his hair, trying to get a hold of himself, trying to keep his mind calm when every fiber of his body was screaming at him to take the stairs, two steps at a time, and burst into her room to see for himself…

The waiting was excruciating.

"Good heavens!" He looked up at the startled housekeeper who had just rounded the corner. "I thought everyone had gone up," she explained, resting a hand against her chest to calm herself. "What are you doing here, lad?"

"Waiting," he explained. His answer was simple, but it spoke volumes. Anyone who looked at him would surely be able to tell that he was close to going mad from worry.

Mrs. Hughes glanced at his hands, noticing how they trembled…and the blood-stained handkerchief that he clutched tightly in one fist. "You need to get some sleep—"

"No," he interrupted. He didn't raise his voice; he didn't have to. His tone said enough; he was not leaving. Not until he knew for certain.

Mrs. Hughes sighed and shook her head. There was concern in her eyes, but for some reason, it was concern directed at him. Why? He wasn't the one lying upstairs somewhere, with a maid hovering over, washing blood away. He hadn't been the one who suffered a terrible head injury. He wasn't the one who may—

No…no, he couldn't think that. Or he _would_ go mad.

"Maybe you should wait in the cottage—"

"I should wait here, in case the doctor needs to be brought back," he explained. His reply was curt, but by no means was it meant to be rude. Even if his Lordship came down and ordered him to go, he would not budge. Not until he knew _for certain…_

Mrs. Hughes sighed, realizing there was no sense in trying to persuade him otherwise. So instead of arguing further, she simply walked over to the stove and set a kettle to boil. "Well…" she exhaled, "no sense in you waiting without a proper cup of tea."

Branson felt one corner of his mouth lift at her words, but he couldn't bring himself to smile fully, not even if he wanted to. They waited in silence while the kettle boiled, he staring off in the direction of the stairs, and she staring upon his agitated profile. It wasn't until she began pouring the tea into their cups that she finally broke the silence.

"I think the worst is over," she softly murmured.

How he wanted to believe her. Everyone seemed to be telling him that: Mrs. Crawley, Lady Mary, Dr. Clarkson, and now Mrs. Hughes. But no matter how many people repeated the same thing over and over…he knew he wouldn't be able to believe them until he saw _her_. Lady Sybil…laughing and smiling, her eyes shining with mischief and curiosity, her cheeks glowing with warmth and delight. He could easily picture her sitting up, looking utterly mortified by the bandage on her head, but trying to cover up any embarrassment by making a joke, pointing to her head and saying, "Well Branson what do you think? I intend to make it all the rage upon my season in London." Only then, would he be able to smile fully, laugh again, and feel peace once more.

But he knew it was out of the question. He was the last person her family would allow near her right now. He would be blamed for what happened, and rightfully so. The scheme may have been Lady Sybil's, but he had encouraged her. Had she always been such a conspirator? Or had he accelerated her powers of plotting and intrigue? She championed women's rights long before he arrived at Downton, but it was he who had given her those pamphlets, it was he who had initiated the conversations, it was he who encouraged her to explore other political issues and bring any questions she had to him. Would she be where she was right now, lying with a great bleeding gash along the side of her head, if he hadn't done those things? Why couldn't he have kept his mouth shut? Why couldn't he have simply done his job, driving her here and there, minding his own business, and ignoring any question other than those directly related to the journey at hand? Why had he gotten involved at all?

Well he knew why; and God forgive him, he didn't think he had the strength to do otherwise, even if he were offered the opportunity to go back and do it all over.

Slowly…bit by bit…he was starting to see Lady Sybil as more than just the daughter of his employer. If he were completely honest with himself, he was starting to see Lady Sybil as simply…_Sybil_. And that was where danger lay…

"Mr. Branson?"

He looked up at Mrs. Hughes, who he hadn't realized was now sitting across from him. His cup sat in front of him, untouched. How long had it been there? No doubt the tea had gone cold now. Still, she had been kind enough to make it for him, so with shaking fingers he forced himself to pick the cup up and drink. It was still warm, but just barely.

"I said," she repeated, "that I doubt his Lordship will be calling for you this evening."

Branson stared at the swirling black tea leafs settling at the bottom of his cup. "I'll be ready when he does," he murmured_. Ready for both the shouting and the sacking._ He gulped the last of the lukewarm liquid down his throat. "The last thing on my mind right now is what happens to me."

"Maybe it should be the first."

He looked up and met her hard gaze, her eyes penetrating right through him. Her words were not a question, nor were they a suggestion; but they were an accusation.

He shouldn't be surprised. It would take a blind man not to have noticed the developing…"inappropriateness"…of his and Lady Sybil's relationship. It was innocent, truly; they were friends…good friends...and that was all. But he had broken the cardinal rule that forever loomed over people of his station: _he forgot his place._

It didn't matter how "innocent" their relationship was; he was her inferior, and in the eyes of society would always be so. His employer wasn't just her father, but also an earl! A powerful peer of the British aristocracy! But even putting that aside, he, Tom Branson, was a grown _man_…seven years her senior…and she was a young woman—girl, actually. Wasn't that what he had told himself upon first seeing her? Think of her as only that, a young _girl_, and nothing more? Even though nothing nefarious had happened, it didn't matter; he was certainly old enough to know better and to know how it could appear—that she, an innocent victim, had been taken in and "seduced" in a manner of speaking, by a low-class ruffian.

Indeed; maybe Mrs. Hughes was right? As hard as he believed in the struggle for equality between the classes, after today…maybe he should care a little more about his place and position in the "social pecking order". At least then Sybil—_Lady_ Sybil, wouldn't have been hurt.

His stomach began to twist as once more, the horrifying memory returned. The crowds were closing in, but it wasn't like the last time. They were drunk now, drunk and angry and looking for any excuse to throw a punch. And Sybil…sweet, lovely, and innocent to a fault, just stood there and strained to hear the votes being counted, not seeming to notice the danger she had placed herself in. He tried—God knows how he tried to keep her safe, to reason with the brutes that were closing in, but it was impossible. Even her own cousin, Mr. Matthew, wasn't able to make her see reason. And before he realized what had happened, he heard it…

The stomping of boots, the curses of men, a woman's frightened gasp, the breaking of glass…and then the sickening crack of her skull hitting the pavement.

He had to tightly squeeze his eyes shut and take a long, deep breath, to keep his tea from coming back up.

Never, in all his life, had he ever been so terrified.

He shoved the drunken lout who was trying to pick a fight with him out of the way, and fell to his knees. Mr. Matthew was already there, his hand moving to the back of Sybil's head…and coming away bloody. "Oh no…oh please God, no." Without a moment's hesitation, Branson's arms were beneath her, scooping her up and carrying her to whatever safety Mr. Matthew was leading him to.

He once had a dream where…where he held Syb—a girl _like _Lady Sybil…and he awoke, remembering everything so clearly, how it felt, her head cushioned against his shoulder, her cheek pressed against his chest, the curve of her body fitting perfectly within his arms…he relished that feeling and yearned for the dream to return to him night after night.

But this was nothing like his dream. She was limp, like a ragdoll, her body felt far too weightless, far too…lifeless. This was a living nightmare, one where he knew he would be forever doomed to relive, both awake and in sleep.

How it pained him to have to let her go. Of course he had to, so he could drive the bloody car to Mr. Matthew's home where Mrs. Crawley could look after her while he went to fetch help. But he hated it. He hated having to release her when his arms screamed to hold her against him, as if by doing so he could find the life that seemed to be missing from her body. He hated having to leave her with the Crawley's, even though he knew she was in capable hands. He hated the horrified look on Lady Mary's face when Gwen brought her to him and he was forced to explain what had happened. But most of all, he hated having to stand outside and wait; it was a bitter reminder of his station.

Surely he had left a ditch in Mr. Matthew's garden from where he had paced back and forth. He tried to peer through the windows, but Moseley was in the room, scowling if his face got too close to the glass. Eventually the Crawley butler shut the curtains, and he was forced to wait in the gathering darkness.

"Mrs. Hughes?" Both he and the housekeeper looked up at Gwen's appearance. "Lady Mary was wondering if some sandwiches could be made for Mr. Crawley—seeing as he's been here all night and hasn't had a chance to get any supper."

Mrs. Hughes gave an understanding smile and nodded her head. "Of course; I'm sure Mrs. Patmore thought ahead and left something in the pantry. And I'll take care of it, no sense in waking poor Daisy; that girl only gets a few precious hours of sleep each night." She rose from her chair and took his empty tea cup from trembling hands (how long had he been gripping it? It was amazing he hadn't broken it!) As she did so, her hand quickly squeezed his, and for a brief moment, he saw both sympathy and tenderness in the woman's eyes. She may have been offering him some sage advice with her earlier comment, but she wasn't heartless; she knew how deeply he…cared.

"Gwen?" Mrs. Hughes turned to the red-haired maid, who looked utterly exhausted. She had been the one charged to look after Sybil while she recovered. "How is Lady Sybil?"

Branson looked up at Mrs. Hughes and caught her gaze. While the question was directed at Gwen, she was clearly asking it on his behalf. Perhaps she was hoping that Gwen's answer would bring him some peace of mind?

"She's much better," Gwen answered truthfully. "She's sleeping now, actually. She complained a bit at first about her head aching, but Dr. Clarkson left her a tonic, which I made sure she took, and before she fell asleep, she said her head was feeling much better."

"And…do you think the doctor will be returning any more this evening?" Mrs. Hughes didn't even bother to glance at the maid; she looked straight at him as she asked the question.

"No ma'am," she dutifully answered. "I overheard him tell his Lordship that it wouldn't be necessary to see her again until tomorrow. Everyone else, save for Lady Mary and Mr. Crawley, have gone to bed." Gwen glanced at him briefly as she said this last bit; no doubt she too had been expecting the Earl to stay up long enough to summon him for his sacking, but only after Lord Grantham had the chance to hang, draw, and quarter him. So it will be execution at dawn instead, he thought.

"Thank you, Gwen," replied Mrs. Hughes. "You've done a great deal, and should get some rest yourself." Gwen gave a small curtsy, her eyes meeting his one last time, before turning and leaving. But in that look, Branson could see the maid's reassurance, the promise that everything with his lady _would_ truly be alright.

"Well, Mr. Branson," Mrs. Hughes said, turning and facing him once more. "Does that answer satisfy you any better?"

A little; Gwen had probably spent more time than anyone else here by Sybil's bedside, so she would probably know better than anyone how Sybil truly faired. But it still wasn't the same as seeing her with his own eyes and hearing her tell him with own lips that she was alright…and that she had forgiven him for not keeping his promise to watch out and protect her, even though it had never been spoken.

Yet he knew why Mrs. Hughes had done that, and he knew what she wanted him to say. The housekeeper tried to come across as a formidable steel dragon, but she truly had a heart of gold. And while he claimed to not care what happened to him, she was making it known that at least she, did. "Yes, ma'am," he answered, with a slight bow of his head. "I will return to my cottage for the night, but be awake and ready all the earlier, in case I am needed."

His words meant, "In case I am needed to fetch the doctor," but he knew the reality—"in case I am summoned by his Lordship for the inevitable."

She gave him a smile, before wishing him goodnight, and proceeding to go about the task of preparing sandwiches for Mr. Matthew. He wanted to thank her for sitting with him, for making him tea, and helping him from going mad. But he knew she wouldn't hear any of it, hence why she was pretending he had already left. So he simply said his own goodnight, before turning and stepping out once more, into the cool spring night air.

He was exhausted, but he wasn't tired. He wouldn't be able to sleep, even if he tried. Nor did he really want to—all that would be waiting for him would be nightmarish demons, replaying the scenes of the day over and over, in more gruesome details than he could ever imagine. And he didn't want to return to his cottage either; he would feel the necessity to begin packing his things, a reality he wasn't truly ready to face, not just yet at least. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his livery jacket and began walking the winding path that went around the house. If Mr. Carson saw him he would be reprimanded right away, but what's the worst they could do to him at this point? He needed the walk.

…And he knew his destination.

Last summer, Isis, his Lordship's dog, got loose from her leash and began playfully running around the back gardens of the house. Branson heard the commotion as several servants were trying to get the dog to return. He soon joined them, and chased the dog around the house, trying his best to lure it back. Isis clearly found this to be a fun game, and so she led him on a wild goose chase, long after the other servants had lost their breath and were standing off the side, panting. He remembered laughing at the dog, even when he tried to sound firm and commanding. And he wasn't the only one finding the situation funny…

Her laughter was sweeter than any music he had ever heard. He would know her laugh if he were blind. He looked up then and saw her, grinning and giggling down at him from the window of her room. He returned her smile, and gave a slight bow, before proceeding to chase the dog further.

Ever since then, he remembered which window belonged to her.

Sometimes…when he had trouble sleeping, or simply needed to clear his head, he would wander these paths. It wasn't often, but he had done it on a few occasions. But the walk was always the same…it always led to this spot, in the shadow of a willow tree…and looming above, stood her darkened window.

Innocent indeed; how could this not be seen as "nefarious"? He shook his head, the battle in his heart waging ever stronger.

He had been wrong; earlier, he had thought that the worst part of the night was the waiting outside Crawley House. But he knew, as much as he hated to admit it, what pained him the most about the entire evening…

Just when he thought he couldn't stand another second of waiting, Mr. Moseley opened the door and Mr. Matthew stepped out, with Sybil leaning against him for support. She was walking…she was awake! How he wanted to rush forward and take her in his arms and hold her tight. Somehow he managed to restrain himself, but he couldn't restrain the relieved smile that spread across his face. "Milady…" he murmured, taking a step towards her, his hand outstretched, as if to take over for Mr. Matthew and help her the rest of the way.

But he froze in place as he watched her lift her eyes to her cousin…and look up at him as a woman would look upon her champion.

There was no denying the adoration he saw in her eyes…for Mr. Matthew. And when Mr. Matthew smiled down at her, Branson swore he saw some color flood her cheeks and her eyes alight with merriment, despite her present situation.

And for the first time since he met the future heir to Downton…he hated him. Hated him, and deeply, deeply envied him.

Mr. Matthew could be the champion that he, Tom Branson, was forbidden to be. Rank and society dictated that a man like him was unworthy, even though he would have carried her for miles across hot coals. Perhaps this, more than being forced to wait outside, truly reminded him of his "place".

Maybe it was for the best that he was being sacked. At least then he wouldn't have to drive her to the church on her wedding day to Mr. Matthew.

He truly wanted Lady Mary to keep her promise, to let him know how Sybil got on after tonight. They both knew that he would be gone by morning, so he would be unable to know how she faired in the days to come. But he hoped, by God, that the good woman would not say anything about a future engagement between his lady and the next Earl of Grantham.

He shook his head, feeling foolish. Lady Mary seemed to be a good woman, even if she sometimes came across as cold. He did not doubt that she would keep her end of the promise and let him know about Sybil…but she was also the most "proper" of the Earl's daughters, and she would be the last person to share such news with a "mere servant" like himself. And…while he wished it had been him, receiving such a look of admiration, if Mr. Matthew made Lady Sybil happy…well, that was all that mattered, wasn't it?

Her health and happiness; truly, that _was_ all that mattered.

He sighed and continued on his journey, away from the willow tree, away from the sight of her window. He would miss this place; it was the best job he had ever had. He would miss the people here…well, maybe not Thomas and O'Brien, but he would miss all the others. He would miss the cars, he would miss the Earl's fine library, and of course…he would miss Lady Sybil. Wonderful, beautiful, Lady Sybil Crawley…who never treated him like a servant, but who spoke with him freely, shared her ideas, asked for his opinions, and laughed with him as anyone would with a good friend.

A sad smile spread across his face as he accepted the truth. Despite everything that had happened, despite the ache in his heart he was feeling right now at the thought of leaving and the knowledge of what he expected was coming…if he had the opportunity to do it all over again…he _still_ didn't think he would change a thing. In fact, he knew that he wouldn't.

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><p><em>Hope you enjoyed this journey into Branson's perspective after the infamous "Count". Sybil's perspective is coming next. Please let me know your thoughts, I appreciate all feedback! Thank you for reading!<em>


	20. Worrying

_From Branson's POV to Sybil's, after the Count..._

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty<strong>

Sleep was impossible. Dr. Clarkson had given her a tonic that he claimed would not only help with any head pain, but would also lull her into a gentle, dreamless sleep. Well, the first part of what he had said came true; as to the second, well…it looked like her anxieties were much more powerful.

God bless Gwen; she had stayed by Sybil's side throughout the ordeal, only to leave the room when her father ordered her out so he could properly scold his daughter without the servants watching. But after everyone had gone, Gwen sat by her side and held her hand while she cried her eyes out over everything that had happened…and over everything she feared would still happen, despite her threats. Finally, when she had gotten a hold of herself, she dutifully took the tonic Dr. Clarkson had left, before lying back and waiting for sleep to claim her. When it refused, she pretended to sleep so Gwen could leave and get her own; no sense in both of them staying up. Besides, her dear friend looked utterly exhausted, and no doubt shared similar worries with Sybil.

So here she was, lying in the dark, listening to the sounds of a quiet house when only a few hours ago it had been utter chaos.

After returning from Cousin Matthew and Isobel's home, Mary took her up to her room, leaving her in Gwen's care, before going and fetching Mama and Papa. She braced herself, steeling her resolve for the inevitable admonishment, although she knew this would be ten times worse than the lecture she had received last week at dinner.

And she had been right.

Her father stormed into the room, took one look at her disheveled appearance and the nasty bump on her head, before launching into a full blown tirade about her disobedience. She sat and gritted her teeth, trying her best to not show the tears that threatened to fall at any moment, until it became too much to bear, so she launched her own retaliation. It was quite clear to all those present where she and her father were alike.

"I'm sorry I disobeyed you, but I'm interested! I'm political, I have opinions!"

Her father threw a counterattack, striking where she was most vulnerable. "Of course I blame Branson for this! We had none of this—none of it, until he set foot in our house!" He then proceeded to make snide, insulting comments, before threatening to sack him that very moment. "He leaves tonight!"

She wanted to sound mature, intelligent, and superior—but in the end, her response sounded petulant. "If you punish Branson, I'll never speak to you again—never!" She tried to regain her composure by offering herself up for blame, but her father already shared that sentiment, and made it quite clear when he shouted back. So she was left with no choice but offer the last weapon in her arsenal. "If I find tomorrow that Branson is missing, I'll run away, I warn you!" The scoffing laugh her father threw in her face hurt, but she lifted her chin and set her jaw, promising him that even though she didn't know where she would go…she would, in fact, go…and he would be sorry.

Her father seemed to calm down a little at that point. He sighed and looked at her for a moment, before murmuring, "I _should_ be sorry; very sorry indeed." It pained her to see his disappointment, as well as hear it in his voice. Dr. Clarkson arrived then, and the family was ushered out while he examined her wound.

Gwen returned after the doctor left, her face pale and her eyes filled with worry; no doubt she had heard everything while waiting in the hall. They said nothing at first, and then the silence became too great, and before Sybil realized what was happening, the room erupted in the sound of her sobs.

"It's all my fault!" she wailed. "Poor Branson, he knew nothing, Gwen, I swear it!"

The maid fell to her knees by Sybil's bed side and gripped her outstretched hands. "Hush, milady…" she tried to soothe. But it was no good; she didn't want to be soothed.

"I tricked him!" Sybil confessed. "I…I…I just wanted…to see…to hear the Count…" she was becoming a blubbering mess. "He knew we shouldn't have been there…he tried to warn me! But…I wouldn't listen…oh Gwen…I'll never forgive myself!"

The sobs took control at that point; talking was useless. So she let all her worry, all her pain and frustration of the day come streaming out in those sobs, hiccupping here and there, and Gwen just held her hands, every so often offering a hanky. When her crying seemed to have finally died down, Sybil lay back in the bed and stared up at the ceiling, her mind already racing ahead, trying to figure out what to do next. Would her father listen? She hadn't been bluffing, she meant every word, and she _would_ leave if he sacked Branson! But where would she go? She hadn't thought that far ahead, hence why her father scoffed at her threat. Her first thought was to go _with_ Branson, but that would only create scandal and make him out to be some sort of vile villain, a "seducer of young girls" like Willoughby or Mr. Wickham. She had brought enough trouble upon his head, and no doubt he despised her right now for all that she had done. No, she would have to come up with another plan, but only if her father made good on his own threat.

Thank God for Mary. Sybil had been surprised by Mary's sudden defense of Branson. While at Crawley House, both she and Cousin Matthew were demonizing him, blaming him for had happened. Sybil was quick to defend; it was she, not Branson, who had organized the whole scheme, that Branson was not only innocent, but that he had also tried to convince her to leave and return straight home. Mary softened a little then, but Sybil could still see doubt in her sister's dark eyes. However, when the need arose, Mary was there by Sybil's side, just as she had defended her baby sister's right to have opinions a week ago at that dreadful dinner. Sometimes people mistook Mary's calmness for coldness, but if anyone had seen the way her eldest sister doted upon her while Cousin Isobel wiped away the last of the blood from her brow, they would not be able to deny the genuine concern and love that the oldest Crawley daughter radiated.

Indeed, Sybil knew that Mary's reasoning would do more good for Branson than any of her petulant threats. She would have to thank her sister later…many, many times.

Gwen encouraged Sybil to take her medicine then, which she dutifully did, although sleep was the last thing from her mind. As she lay there, waiting for the medicine to work its magic, Gwen made herself busy, tidying up the room and collecting Sybil's disheveled garments for the laundry basket. She paused in the midst of her work, and glanced at Sybil, nibbling her bottom lip as if wondering if she should say what she was thinking. "I'm sorry for losing my temper the other night," she apologized. "It wasn't right of me to raise my voice, especially after everything you have done."

Sybil sat up, looking a little surprised by the apology. "Oh Gwen," she sighed, a small smile attempting to lift at the corners of her mouth. She reached out and took the maid's hand, offering a gentle squeeze. "There's no need," she murmured.

The night before, she had come to freshen up before going down for dinner, and Gwen was there, changing the sheets. It had been some time since Gwen had had any luck with hearing back from anyone seeking a secretary. Sybil tried to be optimistic, and murmured a few words that were meant to be encouraging, but for Gwen they had the opposite effect. It was the closest thing to a row the two of them had ever had; Gwen gave a cold retort, reminding Sybil that she (an upper class girl) wasn't like them, and that people like her (the working class) couldn't afford to get their hopes up.

It was a cutting remark, and one that should have provided some warning, considering everything that had recently happened. But she had been inspired by her most recent conversation with Branson, about the need for equality between the classes, and hearing Gwen tell her that people who worked couldn't afford to have hopes and dreams…well, that just didn't sit right with Sybil. Just as she had vowed at the flower show nearly a year ago, she would not give up. Gwen's dream was her dream now, and that was exactly what she told her friend. Gwen didn't have a reply to that, she simply finished her work and bid Sybil goodnight.

Now, one night later, the two of them sat in Sybil's room, not as servant and mistress, but as friends, as equals…who were both very frightened on behalf of another dear friend.

Her best friend.

She nearly burst into sobs a second time, but willed herself to remain calm, pulling the blankets up to her chin and turning on her side away from Gwen. As comforting as it was to have Gwen there, she needed some time alone, and Gwen clearly needed rest more than she. So she muttered something about feeling very tired, to which Gwen nodded her head, picked up the laundry basket, and said goodnight before turning out the lights and shutting the door. Sybil lay in the dark, waiting…listening to the sounds of maids and footmen, briskly walking up and down corridors, snuffing lamps and turning off lights. She heard doors close; she heard whispered conversations drift away until all that could be heard was the sound of night crickets, chirping in the distance.

The house had gone to sleep…but she was wide awake. And while all the confusion, worry, and chaos of earlier seemed to have disappeared, it still raged inside her head.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Sybil cursed herself. She rolled over onto her stomach and buried her face into her pillow, squeezing her eyes shut as if that would keep the hot, angry tears at bay.

_"I don't think you're selfish, milady. If anyone could accuse you of anything, it's that you care too greatly." _

She didn't deserve such a fine compliment, not then and certainly not now. She was the most selfish creature in the world, as well as the most naïve. She fancied herself as the most forward-thinking member of her family, but her pride had led her past foolishness and straight into danger—for both her and someone she cared about.

"How he must hate me!" she moaned to herself. She couldn't blame him if he did—she wouldn't blame him. _She_ certainly hated herself. Why hadn't she listened to him? She had been so sure of herself, so cocky; she expected to find him impressed when they arrived in Ripon, thinking her clever because she had managed to trick them all into coming to hear the counting of the votes. But instead of awe and admiration, he looked horrified! He begged her to get back into the car, or at the very least to wait for him, but she didn't listen, she was too eager to hear what was being said, as well as slightly disappointed that he hadn't responded the way she had hoped. She groaned and berated herself as she recalled her cheeky words: _"really Branson, I thought I gave the orders?"_ She was utterly appalled; she had never spoken to him like that before! When he managed to find her in the thick of that crowd, he tried again; begging once more to leave, urging her to go, but she ignored him. For someone who prided herself on being forward-thinking and aware of the problems that real people were facing…she was awfully thick.

She had assumed that if things were getting rough, Branson would simply put his arm around her shoulders as he had done before, and no harm could possibly touch her. "Stupid, foolish, simpleton!" she hissed to herself. It all happened so suddenly; Cousin Matthew was there, also urging her to leave, and then Branson was shoved aside while another man attempted to punch her cousin, and the next thing she knew…she was falling.

She tried to stop the fall by grabbing a nearby crate, but all that achieved was knocking a bottle off its surface and causing it to shatter just before her head met the pavement. That was the last thing she was aware; the sound of glass shattering before the world went dark.

Her head throbbed. A sharp, stabbing pain was radiating from her right brow. It also felt warm and sticky. She hadn't been lucid, but it seemed as if her senses had stored up these memories which she was recalling now. There had also been the sensation of leaving the ground…had she been floating? She felt as light as a feather…like something out of a dream.

Strength; that was all she could recall, something strong…strong and trembling.

Her eyes opened once more when Cousin Isobel waved some smelling salts under her nose. She found herself lying on a sofa, her cousin's confident hand pressing a cool cloth to her head, as she washed away the blood. Cousin Matthew stood nearby, looking frantic, glancing out the window every so often as if he were searching for something…or someone.

"B…Br…Br…" she couldn't seem to form the words. It was as if she had forgotten how to speak.

"What's she saying?" Matthew asked, rushing over to his mother's side.

"I'm not sure," Isobel answered honestly. "She's barely conscious; no doubt she suffers from a concussion—Sybil, dear, you must stay awake now!"

She wanted to sit up, she wanted to make them understand what she was trying to say, but at the same time she felt dizzy and nauseous, and it was so tempting to fall asleep once more and imagine that warm strength, enveloping her…

That was truly when the chaos started. Mary arrived and both she and Matthew fussed over her while Isobel finished cleaning her wound. When it was deemed that she was well enough to go, Matthew helped her up, and for a brief moment, she felt like a little girl once more, lost in one of her nanny's fairytales. She was the sleeping princess, and he the handsome prince, come to her rescue and to return her to the castle.

Good Lord, how badly had she bumped her head? She admired her cousin, and yes, she did think him handsome, but nothing more. Besides, despite Mary's protests, it was quite obvious that her eldest sister was head over heels in love with him. Still, like a doe-eyed baby, she followed Matthew outside, looking up at him with cow eyes…only to feel her cheeks flood with color at the sound of _his_ voice…

"Milady…?"

That beautiful, Irish brogue. Sometimes when they were in the car, and he was talking to her, she would close her eyes and just enjoy the lifts of his accent; the soft, musical tenor, combined with the rich, soothing baritone.

Her heart lifted with joy at the sound of his voice; she had been so worried about him! Had he been injured as well? But a sudden feeling of shame washed over her, shame for her behavior, shame for not paying heed to his warning. She couldn't bear to look at him, not yet at least. Her grip tightened on Matthew's sleeve, and she clumsily followed him into the car, walking right past Branson, her eyes downcast…but feeling the heat of his gaze burning upon her the entire time. When they returned to Downton, she managed to lift her eyes just briefly and catch his profile as he held the door open.

Cold; hard and frozen, like the gaze of a statue. Her heart chilled at the look, and she quickly looked away before he managed to catch her eyes upon him.

No, she did not deserve the kind words he had murmured to her practically a year ago. Her foolishness may very well cost a man his job. But her selfishness screamed even louder; for while she worried about Branson's livelihood, she was more afraid that her foolishness may have cost her the dearest friendship she had ever known.

How she wanted to go and find him; how she wanted to sneak out the house and go straight to his cottage and bang on the door and beg for his forgiveness, telling him over and over how truly sorry she was…

But she needed to stop thinking of herself. For as kind a notion as it may seem, to want to go and apologize, her desire to find him would only result in more trouble. And she had done enough of that for the handsome chauffeur.

She groaned and sat up, swatting away at the new tears that trickled down her cheeks. Maybe she could write him a letter? Gwen would deliver it, wouldn't she? But a letter didn't seem…"good enough". No, an apology such as this needed to be said in person…and for that, she would have to wait until everything had cooled down after the incidents of the day.

She rose from the bed, taking care not to move too quickly (her balance was still off after her nasty tumble), and walked over to her window. The evening was cool, but she needed the fresh air more than anything. As she opened the window, she gazed down at the empty grass, just below the shadow of a nearby willow. A small smile curled at her lips as she recalled once seeing Branson chase her father's dog around that very same spot. She remembered laughing at the sight, and he looking up at her and grinning back.

A blush crept up her neck and flooded her cheeks as her mind was suddenly filled with images of Romeo, scaling Juliet's balcony. She quickly shut the window, feeling she had gotten enough fresh air, and immediately buried herself under her blankets, her heart pounding rapidly.

She was overwrought, or at least that's what she kept telling herself. After such a harrowing day, her anxieties were simply getting the better of her. Besides, she had thought outrageous things when she was with Cousin Matthew, all because of that bloody injury; surely this was no different…right?

She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her lips against her folded hands, as a prayer filled the dark room. "Dear Lord…if you can hear me…please…tell him…help him understand…how very, very sorry I am. He's a good man, he doesn't deserve to be reprimanded for my foolishness…let alone sacked. Please…please help Papa see reason. And…and help me, too; help me be wiser, and less selfish…and…and…well, you know my heart better than anyone…" she paused, unsure what else to say, so she simply murmured her, "amen", and listened to the crickets chirp in the quiet darkness.

By some miracle…sleep did come at last. That enveloping strength that she had been longing for ever since she had awoken at Cousin Isobel's returned at last. But despite what Dr. Clarkson had promised, it wasn't a dreamless sleep. Rather, she dreamt of being the sleeping fairytale princess, held close in the strong arms of her Romeo, who was dressed in chauffeur's livery, and who had scaled her balcony…to simply tell her that he understood, and forgave her.

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><p><em>Thanks again for the wonderful feedback and for taking the time to read! Let me know what you think! <em>


	21. Interruption

_Thanks to everyone for sticking with this story , especially after the crazy uploading escapade of Chapter 20; hopefully if you were unable to read it, you can now with the upload of Chapter 21. Thanks also for the wonderful comments and messages! I enjoy hearing from you guys so much, so please feel free to let me know your thoughts! Hope you enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-One<strong>

_Dear Martin,_

_I know this seems unusual; normally I wait until I hear from you before sending you another letter, but this couldn't wait…_

…

…

_Dear Martin,_

_You're probably surprised by seeing this, and can only guess that something must be wrong if I chose to write to you again so quickly…and you'd be right, although it's not as bad as it could have been…_

…

…

_Martin—whatever you do, please DO NOT repeat this to our family, it will only cause them worry…_

…

…

_Martin,_

_I was nearly sacked. How's that for an opening line? _

…

…

_Dear Martin,_

_First, let me reassure you that I am alright…_

…

_Martin,_

_I'm in trouble; I'm not writing to you because I need you send me money or anything like that. Nor am I writing to you to send word to our family, in fact, PLEASE DO NOT do anything of the sort. The last thing I need right now is an anxious letter from my mother. No, the trouble I'm talking about is…well, there's no easy way to say it, so I will be blunt: I was nearly sacked._

_Now as you may have hopefully noticed, I said *nearly*, which means I still have my job, although as you can imagine, it means I am on very thin ice. No doubt you're probably asking, "How did this happen? What did you do, you silly sot?" And…to answer that…I suppose I should admit that…I haven't been entirely honest with you. _

_Do you recall the a letter I sent to you, almost a year ago, where I told you about one of Lord Grantham's daughters, seeking my help in learning how to look up advertisements? I remember your response very clearly: "Are you mad? Don't even consider it; tell her 'no milady', because this will only lead to trouble!" Well…I didn't listen. And I don't just mean about helping her with the advertisements. I…my suffragette…she…she and Lord Grantham's daughter are in fact the same—_

"Branson?"

He nearly fell off the garage bench at the sound of her voice, softly calling his name.

He looked up, his eyes wide, his throat dry, and the letter he had been writing quickly being crumpled up and joining the others, scattered all across the ground. "Milady!" as soon as he was sure his legs wouldn't give out beneath him, he quickly rose to his feet, pulling his jacket on to try and look as presentable as possible. "I…forgive me, I…I didn't think I would be summoned—" he cursed himself inwardly for sounding like a dense schoolboy. What was she doing here? It was dark outside—not overly late, but people would notice if she weren't in the house. "Is there something you need?"

Lady Sybil stood in the small doorway, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes looking down and her cheeks a bright shade of pink. "No, no, please, I…" she looked up at him then, her teeth biting her bottom lip and her eyes filled with worry and concern. Branson swallowed the lump in his throat and wondered if she could hear the loud pounding of his heart. "I'm sorry if I disturbed you," she murmured, her hands ringing together, he noticed. "I…it's just…as you know, we're leaving tomorrow…"

Ah yes, tomorrow. Tomorrow he would be driving the Crawley family to the Downton station, where they would board a train that would take them to London...leaving him behind. Not that he was surprised; he knew it was unlikely that he would be included as one of the servants to travel with the family, even before the incident in Ripon. But now, after everything that had happened…it was absolutely out of the question. He should just be thankful that he still had a place of employment.

Lord Grantham's words continued to echo in his head.

The day after the Count, Branson awoke with blood shot eyes and an aching back. He had fallen asleep at his kitchen table, apparently in the midst of writing letters of employment. After his long walk around the estate's gardens, he returned to his cottage and began stuffing his meager possessions into his trunk. In the midst of packing, he also consumed a bottle of whisky that he had been saving for a special occasion—what could be more special than one's final night before being sacked? He drunkenly sat at the table and began writing—scrawling, would be more accurate—letters to send off to the agencies in both London and Dublin. He would have to do them over again, as it was obvious no one would be able to understand a single word, or scribble, he had written down. He rose, stretched, splashed cold water on his face, and began dressing himself, preparing for the music he would have to face…but wondering all the while about Lady Sybil. He had promised Mrs. Hughes that he would be prepared to fetch the doctor again, so he pulled on his jacket and marched to the house, standing in a corner of the kitchens with his hands firmly clasped behind his back while Daisy and the other kitchen maids scurried about, finishing the final touches to the family's breakfast.

Mr. Carson came around the corner and looked surprised to see him standing there, stiff and tall, his jaw set and his chin high. "Mr. Branson?" He didn't say anything; he merely met the butler's eyes. "I'm glad you're here; will you follow me please?"

Just like he thought; he wasn't to go and fetch Dr. Clarkson…he was to march to his execution straight away.

The maids stopped their work momentarily, watching him follow the Downton butler with nervous expressions. No doubt every servant in the entire house knew what had happened yesterday…and who was to blame for it all.

He climbed the familiar steps and walked down the familiar hall that led to the room where he first met his employer. Carson opened the library doors, and with a deep breath, Branson stepped forward, his shoulders straight and his hands still clasped tightly behind his back. His Lordship wasn't seated at his desk, but rather he was standing by a window, his own hands clasped behind his back, and his face looking out. Carson made his little announcement and then turned to shut the door behind him. Was it Branson's imagination? Or did he catch a tiny look of sympathy on the butler's face? If one blinked they would have missed it.

He stood there, waiting…waiting for the inevitable.

Lord Grantham said nothing. He just continued looking out the window.

Branson shifted his weight, trying to remain calm and keep a stony expression, but inside, his pulse was racing. He could handle being shouted at and having unending curses thrown in his face. But this cold silence? It was an altogether different kind of torture.

Was his Lordship waiting for him to speak first, perhaps? He thought for a moment, and then opened his mouth, not wanting to delay the inevitable any longer—

"There will be no more talk of politics, is that clear?"

Branson was momentarily startled by Lord Grantham's sudden comment. His Lordship remained by the window, not turning his head once, but there was no denying the calm and serious tone of his voice.

"I have been informed by several different voices that you were entirely innocent in Lady Sybil's 'scheme' yesterday, that you knew nothing about her plan to attend the Count, and that you tried to convince her to leave."

Branson wasn't sure if he was meant to respond or not. After a pause, he opened his mouth to speak, but his Lordship turned then to face him, his eyes—the same color as Sybil's—burning right through him.

"I have also been informed that it was you, who carried my daughter to safety…and for that, I am eternally grateful."

Branson didn't trust his voice, nor did he know what to say to that, so he simply bowed his head as a gesture of acknowledgement.

"You should know that _that_ is the reason I am choosing to keep you here," his Lordship murmured, before seating himself at his desk. "But I am well aware, as you warned me, of your 'political leanings'; and while I will not dictate what you read or think, I can and will dictate what you say in the presence of my daughter—_any_ of my daughters, from here on out."

Branson felt his jaw clench slightly, but he said nothing. He simply met his Lordship's gaze with a hard, stone face expression.

"Lady Sybil is young and easily impressionable; I am well aware that she already possessed ideas of a 'progressive nature' before you came here, but I can see now that her interest in such matters has escalated to a point where I am very concerned, not only for her welfare, but for her future. Therefore, Branson, all comments exchanged between you and Lady Sybil will strictly be focused on your duties as chauffeur and nothing more. Also, until I feel it no longer necessary, Lady Sybil will not ride in the car without a proper escort, is that understood?"

How he wanted to argue. He could feel the anger rising in his blood at the man's accusations. So he was deemed "improper" now, was that it? But what really offended him was what his Lordship said about his own daughter. Sybil was no talking parrot, who only repeated words back; no, she was a brilliant young woman with an amazing intellect and insightful ideas! She knew her mind and spoke it freely, and if she didn't understand something, then she would seek the knowledge to understand…and that's what he adored about her! She was unlike any girl—woman, he had ever met.

Why couldn't her father understand that? Why couldn't he…take pride in that?

How he wanted to throw a retort in the man's face. How he wanted to tell him to shove his words and this job, and as well as give him a piece of his mind about all the things he said about Lady Sybil…

But he remembered the last letter he had received from his mother, thanking him for the money he had been able to send, how it was helping the farm and his sisters with their schooling, how his brother Frank was now seeking other employment, and therefore money would be tight momentarily…

And he also thought of Lady Sybil. God help him, he wasn't ready to part from her, not yet at least…

It's hard for a man to swallow his pride, especially when having insults thrown in your face…but somehow, he managed to do it, and merely murmured, "Yes, milord."

Lord Grantham seemed satisfied with this, and then informed him he would be staying at Downton while the family journeyed to London in a few days' time. He was advised to "use that time to reflect" on what it meant to work for a great house like Downton, which was a fancy way of saying he should count his blessings for not being sacked, and fall to his knees each night, begging for God's forgiveness for being a socialist.

An awkward silence fell between the two of them, and Lord Grantham sighed, before looking down at whatever work he had on his desk and dismissing him without another look.

Branson took a deep breath through his nostrils (he didn't dare open his mouth for fear a curse would come streaming out), and turned on his heel to leave. As soon as he reached the door, the Earl's voice stopped him with a parting comment.

"I do like you, Branson…despite what you may believe. But try to see it from my perspective…I may be the Earl of Grantham, but I'm a father and husband first and foremost."

He couldn't fault the man for that. But at the same time he wanted to turn his head and answer, "try to see it from _my_ perspective, milord…" but he didn't. He simply nodded his head, and let himself outside, not stopping until he reached his cottage…where he locked the door and proceeded to pick up the kitchen chair and throw it, hard, against the wall, causing it to shatter and splinter everywhere.

Hence why, several days later, he was sitting in the garage of all places, writing to his cousin; there was no place to sit. He would have to tell Carson eventually about the chair—he just needed to come up with some kind of elaborate story other than the actual truth.

"Branson?"

He shook his head, realizing his mind had wandered while she had been standing there. "Sorry, milady," he apologized with a slight bow of his head.

"It's alright," she murmured, her cheeks darkening and her eyes looking away. "I shouldn't have bothered you—I'll go—"

"No please—"

He reached out, meaning to touch her arm or shoulder to stop her from going, but his hand actually made contact with her waist, something which caused them both to gasp. He immediately withdrew his hand, as if an electric shock had gone through him—in a manner of speaking, it had. If Sybil's cheeks were red before, then they were positively crimson now. _A becoming color_, he thought to himself.

"Forgive me, milady—"

"No, it's I who should be asking for forgiveness, Branson; _you're_ forgiveness."

He was surprised by her words, and his brow furrowed at her statement. "My forgiveness?"

Sybil nodded her head, her teeth biting her lip as she had done when she first arrived. "Yes…that's why I came here, I had to, you see. It would be my last chance until we return…" her voice trailed off slightly, her eyes clouding with what only could be described as a deep sadness. "Branson…" she took a deep breath and looked directly at him, her beautiful, blue-gray eyes boring into his, boring through him, into his very soul. "I'm so, so sorry…for everything. For…for my scheming, for tricking you and dragging you into my scheme, for…oh God, for those awful things I said to you when you were trying to warn me…" she looked down at the ground, and he heard what sounded like a hiccup escape her throat. He bent his head a little, trying to see her face, and felt his breath catch as he noticed a few tears trickling down her lovely, pink cheeks.

"Milady—"

"No, please…let me finish?" she lifted her eyes, and he was struck with how lovely her face was, how lovely her eyes were, even when they shimmered with tears. How he wanted to take her in his arms and hold her against him, to comfort her and tell her she needn't cry, not over him. But he restrained himself, although it was proving to be a harder task than that of keeping his mouth shut before his Lordship.

"I should have listened to you…but I was stubborn…so stubborn," she moaned, irritation now rising in her voice. "My brilliant plan didn't go off as I had thought," she sarcastically muttered. He bit his cheek to keep from grinning; he couldn't help it if he found her adorable. But he didn't want her to think he was belittling her heartfelt apology, so he swallowed the chuckle that had bubbled up in his throat and continued listening.

"You once said you thought me unselfish, which was a very kind thing to say," she continued, after taking a deep breath and looking directly into his eyes. "But…an unselfish person would have thought of the consequences that could befall another, if something were to go wrong. Not only did I not consider those consequences…I also was foolish enough to assume nothing could go wrong—"

"That's not foolishness, milady," he interrupted. He couldn't stand to see her grieved, especially over someone like him. "That's…that idealistic."

A small smile curled at the corners of Sybil's mouth, but her eyes still held sadness and shame. "Ideals are all very fine, but they can hardly prepare one for the realistic challenges of the world."

Branson frowned. "Now don't go and turn cynical on me, Sybil Crawley; if we didn't have ideals to aspire to, then it would be impossible for change to take place. You may have been unprepared for those drunken fools, but you're not to blame for their behavior." His fists began to clench slightly as he remembered the stink of the one man who tried to shove him aside, and who in the end shoved Sybil to the ground. "It's men like them that bring a bad name to our causes; who make the Tories and others think we're a bunch of hooligans, incapable of…" his voice began to trail off as he noticed the smile on Lady Sybil's face grow wider and wider, and her hand rise up to cover her mouth and hold in the giggle that still managed to slip past her fingers. "What?"

Sybil laughed, but she was by no means teasing him. His fists unclenched and he felt his own mouth lift with a smile. "What?" he asked again, only this time he was joining in her laughter.

"I'm sorry, I…" she couldn't help but giggle, but she quickly managed to calm herself and look at him fully, her eyes shining bright as she gazed up at him. "It's just…you've never said my name like that before: _Sybil Crawley_."

Branson felt his smile fall and his face pale, before suddenly growing hot with realization. "I…didn't I…?"

Sybil only grinned, but shook her head. "I don't mind, truly! In fact…I liked it," she looked down at her still clasped hands, her cheeks glowing pink, but her smile still evident on her beautiful face.

Branson was at a loss for words. He had given up on thinking of her as _Lady_ Sybil, even though he knew that he should. But it was one thing to not think it…and quite another to not _say_ it.

_You are most definitely treading on thin ice, Tom Branson, _he thought to himself. Perhaps his Lordship was right? Maybe he did need time to "reflect" while the family was gone; reflect and remember _what_ he was: a working class Irishman; a chauffeur to the Earl of Grantham. _But I won't always be a chauffeur_, a small voice in the back of his head reminded him. Perhaps not, but that day was a long way off.

"I accept your apology, milady," he quickly murmured, being sure to take a step away from her and turn away, slightly. "Even though I don't think you have anything to apologize for, I thank you for coming here and telling me."

The momentary mirth that had been exchanged between the two of them disappeared entirely. He didn't look at her face, but he could only imagine the disappointment in her eyes for his "dismissal". He hated thinking that, but in truth, that was what he had done. He had thanked her for her apology and was now "dismissing" her to go. The rational part of his brain told him it was the right thing to do; they both had been given a second chance—he with his job, and she with the life she was meant to have, which she would soon be taking part in when she left tomorrow for London. But the other part, the part where he told her to fight against cynicism and stick to her ideals, screamed at him to do the same.

"I'm glad Papa didn't sack you…"

He looked up and turned back towards her. She was standing once more in the doorway, looking like she was ready to leave, but she had paused and was looking at him over her shoulder. The sadness that he had seen earlier was in her eyes once more, but he could also see that she was forcing a smile, fighting hard to remain hopeful despite everything that had happened. He couldn't help it, his chest swelled with pride. "Me too," he chuckled. She joined in his laughter, and the lightness of earlier began to descend once more. He told the rational side of his brain to stuff it.

"I am sorry though—meaning, I know that he called you into his library, and even though I told him over and over that you were innocent in the whole matter, it wasn't right that he—"

"I'm alright, milady," he reassured. "Truly…and his Lordship was…" he chose his next words carefully; he didn't want to give anything away. "…'Fair'." He didn't agree with that assessment entirely, but it was the best word he could think of to describe their meeting.

Sybil turned her back to the doorway and folded her arms across her chest. It was a most "unladylike" gesture, but Branson couldn't help but admire it. It was very…"Sybil".

"I told him I would run away if I discovered you were gone."

He had not been prepared for that declaration. "You what?" he nearly choked.

Sybil lifted her eyes and met his gaze; one look in their blue-gray depths and no one could doubt the seriousness of her statement. "I don't know where I would have gone, but I would have done it…truly."

His heart swelled and he swallowed the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat. What could a man say to that? He had never had anyone defend him the way she had just admitted to. "Well…" he stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked down at his boots, suddenly feeling unworthy to look into the eyes of his valiant heroine. "Thankfully it didn't come to that."

Sybil smiled and also shifted her eyes down to her own feet. "I wish you were coming with us…to London, I mean. It…well it just won't be the same, without you."

He looked at her, his brow furrowed with confusion at her words, but a kind smile spreading across his face. "You make it sound as if we've been going there for years." His cheeks grew hot at those words, and he prayed his own blush wasn't overly obvious. When he said "we've", he hadn't meant him and the _entire_ Crawley family. He quickly cleared his throat and continued. "I mean, you've been there before, dozens of times I would think."

Sybil sighed and nodded her head. "Yes, but all those other times I was either too young to go and do anything, or because the focus was on Mary or Edith, we spent all our time either shopping for new frocks, or attending balls and parties." She rolled her eyes at the whole notion, and Branson caught himself grinning at her obvious disdain. "I want to go and do something worthwhile!"

Despite the importance of appearing presentable, he removed his jacket and quickly placed it down on the garage bench, so she would have to a place to sit and not dirty her dress. "Well, it is _your_ season, after all. Maybe you can convince them to see things your way?"

She laughed, and then thanked him for his jacket, before sitting. "I highly doubt, after everything that's happened, they'll let me attend a proper London suffragette meeting," she grumbled. "Sadly that is entirely out of the question. Oh, but what did you do when you were in London, Branson? Inspire me, please!"

Her curiosity was infectious as always, and he felt himself grinning as he took a seat beside her on the bench. "Well, as you know, I was only there for one week before traveling to Downton. I didn't have a great deal of money…certainly not enough to attend a play or concert…but I did go to the British Museum."

"Oh!" Sybil's face positively glowed with enthusiasm on the subject. "I've never been there, but I have always wanted to go! Is it true they have actual mummies on display?"

Branson couldn't believe his smile could get any wider, but it did. "They do, as well as statues and artifacts from ancient Babylon and Persia. And inside, right in the middle, there's a rotunda filled with books…the largest library in the world, I'm sure!"

Sybil's eyes only grew wider at Branson's descriptions. If his heart swelled any further it would surely break his ribs. "That's it, I _must_ go there!"

He laughed and tried to recall what other treasures he had discovered during his one week stay in London. "In my opinion, the best thing about the city was the people I met, while walking the streets. I took a street car to Portobello Road and walked past all sorts of vendors, selling everything from antique tea cups to feathered hats. I was sorely tempted to buy one for my mother, but thought the better of it in the end; she would no doubt have scolded me for 'wasting my money on such a feathered monstrosity'!"

Sybil joined in his laughter and nodded her head. "I would love to go there too! Mama and Granny think all the best shops are on Oxford or Bond Street, but I agree with you! You don't really see the city until you see _the people_, isn't that right?"

He nodded his head, feeling such pride. Truly, Lord Grantham didn't know what he was talking about when he accused his daughter of being "impressionable". He actually felt pity for the Earl.

"Oh! And…I don't know how you'll get away with doing this, but you must, you absolutely must try to get some chips while you're there."

"Chips?" Sybil looked confused, but very intrigued.

He nodded his head, grinning. "Oh you poor aristocrats, you don't know what you're missing," he teased. "Cut potatoes…about the size of your fingers, maybe a little thicker. Salted and fried up to a beautiful, golden brown—oh they're delicious." His stomach growled at the memory. "Best served with malt vinegar and fish, like cod or haddock. Don't know about the posh places you'll be staying near, but wherever I traveled, there were several vendors with carts set up on corners, selling them, wrapped up in paper."

Sybil giggled and began rubbing her own stomach. "I want them. Oh, they do sound good, I must confess! Leave it to me, I will think of some way to try them," she declared with a haughty air of determination.

He laughed. "I would never bet against you, milady."

She grinned and playfully nudged his shoulder with her own, an innocent gesture much like the ones they had exchanged in the past…but also an intimate one as well. He could smell the soap she used to wash her skin, her hair…the slight hint of her perfume. A single wisp of brown hair had escaped one of her many pins, and had fallen across her brow. His fingers ached to reach up and brush it aside, behind her ear…

"Lady Sybil?"

It was William's voice. He could be heard across the gravel drive, slowly approaching the garage from the kitchen entrance.

"I think I've overstayed my welcome," she moaned with a slight note of irritation, but her smile for him was warm and genuine. How he wanted to tell her she could never overstay her welcome, not with him.

In those brief moments where she asked him to share his memories of London, he completely forgot, once again, the differences between the two of them. He wasn't just some working class Irishman, and she wasn't just some well-born Englishwoman; they were more alike than the world seemed to care to admit.

"Thank you, Branson," she murmured, rising from the bench and handing him back his jacket. "For…well, for so many things, really," she blushed but grinned back at him in such a way that he swore his ribs did crack. "And don't worry…" she took a small book out of the pocket of her skirt. "I came prepared," she explained with a slight wink, before going to the garage door and calling out to William.

Branson stood and watched as she jogged across the gravel drive, explaining to the confused footman that she had gone in search of a book she thought she had left in the car several days ago, a book that she absolutely _had_ to take with her to London. William was an innocent compared to Thomas, who would immediately begin looking for angles to Lady Sybil's story. But William only nodded his head, feeling that her explanation was efficient enough, and guided her back towards the kitchens by the light of the lamp he was carrying.

And just like that…she was gone once more.

The rational part of his brain which had been silenced this entire time now began screaming at him, asking him what in the world was he doing? Hadn't the incident in Ripon taught him anything? Hadn't Mrs. Hughes' advice and the Earl's warnings meant anything?

"She'll be gone tomorrow…for God knows how long," he whispered to himself. He would use that time to consider everything that his rationality was trying to tell him. But until then, he would cling to the moment where she had come to him, apologizing for what had happened, and admitting that she had defended him to the point where she threatened to run away if his Lordship didn't listen. Such a declaration should be chastised; he would never want her to endanger herself, especially not for his sake. But he had been so moved by her words, and then he found himself drawn, once more, to her girlish, playful innocence and wonder, to her ideals…

No…he would not listen to the rational, cynical voices around him, not tonight at least. Instead, he would dream of the world through the idealistic eyes of Lady Sybil Crawley, who he had no doubt would make it a better place. And why wouldn't she? She had already made _his_ better…


	22. Sybil's Diary VIII

_Moving on now to Part III, where Sybil is in London for her first season, and Branson is left behind at Downton. The next few chapters will deal with their time apart...and begin to set things up for that famous Garden Party at the end of the first season. THANKS AGAIN for all the wonderful comments and readership! So glad people are enjoying this! Please continue to let me know your thoughts on this story, I love hearing from people! Enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Volume One, Part III<strong>

_Summer, 1914_

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

June 8, 1914

We arrived in London in the late afternoon yesterday, and I was so utterly exhausted, I couldn't bother to write an entry until now. Strange how something like a train journey can wear one out; all you do is sit! And try as I might to lose myself in the novel I had brought, it was no use. My mind was elsewhere. Alright, not elsewhere—back at Downton, to be specific. I watched the trees and farm fields as we passed, and even raised my hand to a few field workers who watched us pass, but all the while it was another face I kept seeing…another who, like my mind, was also back at Downton.

At least there was distracting conversation. Mary revealed at last to the rest of us (although Granny seemed to have guessed it long before the words were uttered) that Matthew had proposed! Mama already knew, and she had told Papa as well. Seemed that both Edith and I were the last to know, and needless to say, Edith did not share the same joy that the rest of us displayed.

However…I was shocked to discover that Mary hadn't given Matthew her answer! Why ever not? It's obvious to everyone that she's in love with him; why the delay? I asked her that, when we had a moment alone tonight. Her answer was simply, "One day Sybil, you'll understand…" Well, I must be honest and say that I don't think I will. Matthew obviously loves Mary as well, and even though the two of them at one time did not get along, the truth is they're perfect for each other! I know Mama, Papa, and Granny would be pleased by the marriage; that way Mary keeps the inheritance. And while I share Mary's feelings that this whole entail situation, where the next *male* heir is the one that gets to inherit everything is positively medieval…I confess, I think she is utterly mad to let her stubbornness of _that_ issue, be the thing to keep her from saying yes to Matthew.

I may be the youngest of my sisters, and have the least experience with men, but I would like to think that if the man I loved proposed to me, I wouldn't hesitate with giving my answer.

Anyway, Mary told us that Matthew plans to visit London on the night of my coming out ball. Perhaps they are waiting to announce their engagement then? I honestly don't mind, truly; I know this is meant to be "my year", as Papa keeps reminding us all, but I would be quite happy if either Mary or Edith "stole my thunder", so to speak.

Most of our day yesterday was spent getting settled into Crawley House. Carson had gone up a day before us to make sure the house was in order (and naturally it was). Sadly, Gwen was not selected to join us, nor was Anna. We have a local girl named Lucy tending to us. I tried to strike up a conversation with her this morning, but she looked so frightened, poor thing, that I realized it was futile. Edith accused me of making the servants uncomfortable by my "insisting" on talking to them like "normal people". Oh Edith, you truly can be a snob sometimes. I know she would never say or think such things with Anna or Gwen, but I believe her words had more to do with her still feeling bitter about Mary's situation.

Today was all about preparation, meaning preparation for my coming out ball. Mama had me join her in the drawing room and more or less "held me prisoner" for a good part of the morning, writing and sending invitations to various acquaintances, inviting them to my ball. I hardly know any of the people on the list, and found it to be very awkward, writing to these strangers and asking for their attendance, saying how much it would mean to me if they came. Then, Granny descended upon us, and said we had time to fit in at least an hour of shopping, before meeting Aunt Rosamond and several of her friends for luncheon. Mama made more of a fuss over Mary while we were out, wanting her to find something that would dazzle Matthew when he came to my ball. I wasn't so lucky with Granny; she didn't care for the gown I had brought for my presentation to the Queen, and insisted I be fitted for several others. Before we knew it, it was time to race to Aunt Rosamond's, and I sat at a table where her "friends" verbally poked and prodded me, interweaving criticisms through their compliments.

For example: "Oh so this is your youngest, Cora! My, she is a pretty thing, isn't she? Her waist isn't as tiny as Mary's, but curves are becoming all the rage now in fashion. Nothing that a new corset can't fix, of course!"

If only that had been the worst. I promised Granny I wouldn't say anything about my "political hobbies", as she put it, but I couldn't help myself! One of Aunt Rosamond's friends began talking about the latest "scandal" her family had to endure, when a cousin of theirs was arrested for demonstrating at a recent suffragette rally. I spoke up, much to the woman's shock, saying I thought those women were very brave to take a stand for their beliefs. Granny swept in then, literally pulling me up from my chair and forcing me to play at Aunt Rosamond's pianoforte, to "entertain" her guests with my musical abilities—or lack thereof, as Edith is the accomplished pianist in the family. Still, somehow I was able to "salvage" the afternoon, as Mama put it, and all of the ladies gave me their congratulations for my debut, and prayed that they would find an invitation to my ball within the next few days. For all I know, they very well may have been on the list of invitations I wrote this morning, which means that I will have the "honor" of enduring more of their critical compliments within a few weeks' time.

Aunt Rosamond promised us a "treat" then, which was a walk through Regent's Park. The zoo is located here, and I do recall my nanny taking me there when I was very young, while Mama and Granny took Mary and Edith shopping. I remember being fascinated by the lions, and yearned to walk through it once more and see those majestic cats. I suggested it to them, but Aunt Rosamond laughed, saying something along the lines of the zoo being a place for children and "unfashionable" people.

Am I to have my way at all? I know that's a selfish thing to say, but…I must put my foot down a little here; as Papa keeps reminding us all, this is _my_ season! What harm could a walk through the zoo be? If such a fuss is made over something as simple as that, I dread to think how my request to visit the British Museum will be welcomed.

We returned to Crawley House then for tea, and received several friends of Mama's, all American ladies like herself, who have married into the aristocracy. I liked them a little more than Aunt Rosamond's friends, but found a bulk of the conversation boring and tedious. After they left, it was time to dress for dinner, and Evelyn Napier joined us. I had heard he was engaged and thought he would bring his fiancée, but he came alone, offering her apologies.

We played cards in the drawing room afterwards, and when Papa and Mr. Napier joined us, Mama insisted that I play something on our pianoforte for his pleasure. Thankfully, Mr. Napier could not stay, and I was saved from my musical ordeal. I quickly told Mama how tired I was feeling after our long day, and retreated up to my room as soon as I was able. I am alone at last, and truly feel the first sense of peace since coming here.

But I also feel a great sense of…emptiness. Here I am, in one of the most magnificent cities in the world…and the monotony of our daily lives at Downton seems to have followed us here. At least at Downton I had people I could truly call "friends"—people who are worthy of that title.

Oh Lord, I wonder how Aunt Rosamond's companions would respond if they knew that I consider a housemaid and a chauffeur two of my dearest friends in the entire world? The idea has me giggling!

I wonder what they're doing now? I'm sure Gwen keeps busy; no doubt Mrs. Hughes keeps the house in spotless condition, even while we're away. But poor Branson; not that his entire life is focused around us and our schedule, but there's only so much tinkering an engine take! How many times will he work on each car while we're gone? Oh how silly I am sounding; he'll probably go to all sorts of rallies and meetings while I'm trapped here, and when we return home he'll have all sorts of stories to share and naturally, I'll be green with envy.

I wish he were here. I wish both he and Gwen were able to come to my ball! Oh I would invite all the servants back at Downton; Anna, William, even Mrs. Patmore. I'm not sure about Thomas; like O'Brien I never truly cared for him much. But I would feel far more at ease with them in attendance rather than all these people I barely know. Maybe that's why I always enjoyed the Servant's Ball at Christmas?

Mama announced tonight that tomorrow will be a "Sybil Day". In my mind, a "Sybil Day" would include a trip to the British Museum, a walk through Regent's Park with a specific stroll through the zoo, and end by having tea with fellow suffragettes, while listening to speakers from the NUWSS. Oh! And also a chance to sample those "chips" Branson mentioned.

Of course, I know better; my idea of a "Sybil Day" is far different from what Mama has in mind, which will no doubt include several trips to Oxford and Bond Street and even more measurements for gowns and frocks.

I wonder how the Queen would respond if I wore my harem pants to my presentation?

Of course I wouldn't! But what a laugh that would be! Poor Granny, she would have a fit of the vapors to be sure!

And on that merry note, I end this entry. Perhaps while I sleep, I can dream of my ideal London season? One where all my dear friends are present…especially my best friend.


	23. London to Downton: Sybil's Letter

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

Dear Branson,

Surprise! Did I manage to? In my mind I'm imagining a puzzled look on your face as Gwen hands you the extra note I added to her letter; was your brow furrowed at all? Now I'm imagining you reading this, your eyes wide as you realize to whom you are reading from, and then that teasing grin of yours spreading across your face as you try to come up with a witty retort to my "cheekiness", as Anna would say. Well, you'll just have to send that retort to me in your own letter, which I hope you will do when you have the opportunity; simply include it with Gwen's.

Well I trust you lot aren't throwing balls and dancing on the dining room table while we're gone? Just be sure to clear everything up before Carson returns! Oh Lord, what a sight that would be, Mrs. Hughes twirling to music atop the table while the rest of you twirl about on the floor around it! Still, it sounds like a far more welcoming party than the few I've endured thus far.

Oh Branson, forgive me for sounding like a spoiled rich girl (even if that is what I am); I suppose I'm being a bit unfair, the parties aren't awful, but I confess they are a little awkward—I hardly know anyone! I'm trying to be friendly and outgoing, but I spend most of the time being introduced, and hardly have any chance to engage in good conversation before I am shuffled off to the next introduction. Mama has reassured me this will change after my coming out ball, which is scheduled to take place next Saturday, because by then all the proper introductions will have been made and I will, at that point, be a "proper young lady of society".

I hope you are laughing as much as I did. It took all the will power I contained to not burst into giggles in Mama's face, but as soon as I was safely away, I laughed so hard my sides ached! So Branson, do you think I will make a good "proper young lady of society"? Or am I beyond all hope? I know what my governess would have said, and it would lean towards the latter.

I have been kept busy since arriving in London, although I am sad to say not with the things I was hoping to be made busy by. I have not yet had the opportunity to visit any of the lovely places you described, although I have not given up hope! I am determined, and feel I can at least broach Papa with the request to visit the museum (I hardly think it's the sort of place that would amuse Mama or Granny). No, much of my time has been spent on either attending various teas or luncheons with "stylish" friends of Aunt Rosamond's, or going to a dressmaker's on Bond Street because Granny does not think the original gowns I brought to London will "do" for either my ball or my presentation to the Queen in three days' time.

Oh Branson, I must admit, I am a little terrified of the whole notion of being presented! I once found the idea strange, and perhaps a little silly, and then I began to think it would be rather interesting. But now, I'm a complete nervous wreck! The last two days have been spent "preparing" for my presentation, which includes how to enter the room, how to hold your head, how to look upon Her Majesty, how to bend your knees to curtsy, and how to walk away…backwards! I was taken to a class with other girls, who will also be presented, and I was the worst one of the bunch! And that is not an exaggeration, believe me. No doubt you're laughing as you read this and I can't blame you if you are (I would laugh at the situation too if I weren't a part of it!) But our instructor kept clucking her tongue at me, saying I moved too quickly, or lifted my chin too high, or didn't keep my eyes level, and that my curtsy was crooked—oh it was completely mortifying! I'm sure the other girls were snickering behind their fine-pressed gloved fingers. But to make matters worse, our instructor gave us books to balance on our heads, to "remind us" of the proper posture we are to hold when in Her Majesty's presence. One girl, I don't know how she did it, managed to enter the room, walk forward, curtsy, _and_ walk backwards, without dropping her book once! Sadly…I was not so lucky. My book wouldn't stay, it constantly kept falling off! It got to the point where the instructor more or less "gave up on me", and simply told me to go home and practice.

So guess what I've been doing all afternoon? It's amazing I was allowed to sit down and write _without_ having to balance a book while doing so! Mama took pity on me and gave me a reprieve, but I'm sure that if Granny could have her way, I would be going to dinner with a silly book atop my head. What do you think, Branson? Which image do you find the most amusing; Mrs. Hughes dancing on the dining room table? Or me; attempting to sip my soup without dropping the Oxford Dictionary into my bowl?

By the time you receive this letter I may very well be on my way to my dreaded presentation; don't be surprised if the paper the next day has a headline somewhere about the youngest Crawley daughter being locked away in the Tower due to her poor manners when coming before the Queen!

I do hope all is going well back at Downton—I must confess, I do miss it. I hope everyone there is well too, and in good spirits! No doubt you'll be busy attending rallies and such, and making me jealous with all the wonderful things you hear and learn. Just don't brag about it when I get back! But in all seriousness, if you are able, and if you don't mind, I would truly lov—I mean, _enjoy_, hearing from you—perhaps then you can share with me any news you learn from the endless amounts of meetings you attend?

I wish you well,

Lady Sybil Crawley

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><p><em>Just a quick clarification in case any readers were confused by my reference to "the Queen". The Queen mentioned is Queen Mary, aka Mary of Teck, wife of King George V, Britain's monarch from 1911-1936. For hundreds of years, when young ladies of the aristocracy came to London for their first "season", they would have a formal introduction or "presentation" before the queen. From what I understand, this was a semi-lavish ceremony where the girl's name was read, she would step forward and make a grand curtsy, before backing away out of respect, while another girl followed behind her. After the presentation, the girl then would be officially deemed a young lady of society, and complete her season by hosting a coming-out ball. Being a somewhat-ignorant yank, I don't know if they still do these anymore, but they were still in the practice at least leading up to WWII. <em>

_HOPE YOU ENJOYED! I love to hear from readers, so please leave feedback if you can! Thanks!_


	24. Missing Her

_Hello! Here's a chapter that's a bit longer than the previous ones; hope you enjoy! I love writing scenes between Branson and Sybil, but I also love writing ones where Branson interacts with the other downstairs staff. I do make a few allusions to other couples/'ships in this chapter, so if you're a fan of those too, I hope I did them justice! THANKS AGAIN for the feedback! And I appreciate those that sent me PM's in regards to the historical info mentioned in the previous chapter-please leave a comment if you can! I love hearing from readers! And now without further ado..._

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Four<strong>

"Ouch!" Branson let out a string of curses, pulling up his injured thumb from the engine he had been hovering over and tinkering with for the past hour. He nearly kicked his box of tools across the garage out of frustration, but decided the best way to handle the situation was simply to walk away from it. Still muttering a few obscenities under his breath, he abandoned the engine and retreated to the garage bench, where he collapsed and leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes to the world and trying his best to rise above the pain of his throbbing thumb.

"Idiot," he hissed to himself. He hadn't been paying attention—which seemed to be a common trait these days. No matter the task, or how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to keep his mind from wandering to something else…or rather, _someone_ else. Indeed, his mind had been so preoccupied with…other things…that he had been completely oblivious to what was happening in the lives of his fellow servants.

He was stunned to learn that Bates had been accused of stealing wine. Branson didn't believe it for a second, and would have vouched for the valet, but he was, of course, already on thin ice with Mr. Carson; any protests he offered may bring more harm than help. But what stunned him more about the whole situation was _who_ spoke up as witnesses to it. Thomas and O'Brien had been out to get rid of Bates for quite a long time, so their "eye-witness" accounts weren't surprising…but Daisy? Branson shook his head when he learned the news, wondering what on earth had possessed the girl to go along with the scheme? Well, he knew the answer, and it was a good thing Thomas was nowhere near at the moment, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to control his fist.

Mrs. Patmore was becoming more and more agitated; ever since that dreadful incident involving the salty pudding (which had happened almost a year ago!) she was getting worse, flying into fits of rage one instant, breaking down into wailing sobs the next. One of the kitchen maids let it out that the poor woman was going blind, and even though Daisy was completely innocent to the indiscretion, she was the one who took the blame for it.

Then there was poor William, whose mother was dying. Gwen told him that at supper one evening. He felt awful for not knowing, but she reassured him that not many knew, that in fact Mrs. Mason was trying to keep it all a secret, even from William. Still, Branson felt terrible, and that night he wrote a very lengthy letter to his own mother.

How out of touch had he become with his friends here at Downton? At least that's what he hoped he was; he certainly thought of people like Bates, Anna, William, and of course Gwen, as his friends. His Lordship had told him to use the time while they were London to "reflect" on his role at Downton; perhaps he also needed to use that time to reflect on who he was, if anything, in the lives of the others there?

However, it still didn't change the fact that he…missed her.

More than week had passed since he had driven the Crawley family to the Downton station. The previous night, when Sybil had come to him in the garage, was still fresh on his mind. Even though she hadn't said the exact words…she had, more or less, told him that she would…miss him.

"_I wish you were coming with us…to London, I mean. It…well it just won't be the same, without you."_

Talking with her as he had that night, sharing all the things he had done while visiting the city and listening to her excitement as he spoke—he found himself feeling the same thing, that he _should_ be there with her. He lay awake for a long time that night, imagining the two of them exploring London together, taking her to museums, strolling through the parks, driving up and down the streets and listening to her laugh as the wind whipped past their faces. A smile spread across his face as he imagined this fine young lady of the aristocracy sampling "peasant food" for the first time…and he knew she would love it. And despite the recent events in Ripon, he could see the two of them attending—_a much calmer_—political meeting, lifting their voices together with others, crying out for equality and justice.

In these imaginings, the line between his and Lady Sybil's stations was becoming more and more blurred. Sometimes…he couldn't see it at all.

But that line _was_ there and very obvious the morning he took the entire family to the station. His Lordship gave him several parting instructions about looking after the cars and being at the disposal of Mr. Matthew and his mother should they need the car, and proceeded to usher each female member of the family onto the train, not giving Branson a chance to have any parting words with Lady Sybil…not that he would be allowed to, even if he did have the opportunity. But he did manage to catch her gaze, just as she boarded the train, and a parting smile, one filled with mischief and promise over their secret conversation. He couldn't help but smile back, but did so as discreetly as possible, before shaking hands with Lord Grantham and bidding him farewell.

He drove the car away a small distance, and stopped and waited there until the train was out of sight. She was gone now…gone for God knows how long. Gone to celebrate her season, to officially become one of the posh people whose class she was born into. The rational side of his brain began shouting at him, telling him this was a good thing, that now he could focus on important things, on doing his job, on distancing himself from this heart-aching distraction that was beginning to invade his dreams every night…

But deep inside, within his chest…something hurt.

"…_it just won't be the same, without you."_

As the days passed, he was beginning to discover that those words were very true in other ways as well. Downton wasn't the same without Lady Sybil Crawley.

He threw himself into his work, hoping that would distract him. He had driven Mrs. Crawley several times to the village hospital and once to York, and he spent a great deal of the rest of his time in the garage, working on the cars. Yet trivial mistakes that he hadn't made in the past were becoming more and more frequent…like the most recent incident with his sore thumb.

He found himself, at the oddest times, wondering what she was doing. What did a girl do during her "season"? He knew there was something that involved the Queen, and based on the number of faces Sybil had made about it, a bulk of the time was spent attending parties. What sort of parties would they be? Like the fancy dinner parties her family held? Or something even grander? Would there be dancing? Oh God…would there…would there be suitors?

That was when the tool he had been using on the engine slipped and "used itself" on his thumb.

"Tom?" Gwen's voice drifted through the garage door.

"In here!" he answered, wrapping his handkerchief around his thumb before rising from the bench. The red-haired maid poked her head inside; clearly oblivious to what had just happened between himself and the car. "Am I needed? Does Mr. Matthew or Mrs. Crawley want the car?"

"Oh no, nothing like that," Gwen said with a shake of her head and a friendly smile spreading across her pretty face. "No, Mrs. Hughes said a bunch of us could have a bit of 'holiday' tonight, and take a stroll through the village later, and maybe pop by the pub. Anna, Daisy, and I are going…hopefully William too, although you can understand why he may not," she murmured sadly. "Will you join us?"

He smiled at the idea, but paused for a moment. "Will Thomas be coming?"

Gwen made a face at the mention of the footman's name. "Don't be daft."

He laughed and nodded his head. "When do we leave?"

Gwen grinned, happy he would be coming. "After five; we'll come by the garage on the way." He thanked her again for the invitation, and she gave a little curtsy before turning and heading back inside to finish her work for the day.

This was exactly what he needed; a chance for "proper distraction" and some time to be with his friends—his _other_ friends.

Still, as the afternoon went by, his mind still managed to wander back to that other friend he had, a friend he had grown very close to, but who people on both sides of that dividing line would call "forbidden". If only Lady Sybil Crawley were _just_ "Sybil Crawley" as he had accidently called her on the night before she left. If only she were just an _ordinary_ suffragette as he had lied to his cousin about. This would all be so much simpler...

But that created another problem, of course; there was no way Sybil Crawley, Lady or otherwise, could simply be…ordinary.

Hours later, Gwen, Anna, and Daisy appeared, out of their uniforms and in fine, civilian clothes. He had changed clothes as well, wearing one of his better suits (he only had two). "I'm pleased to say that William will be joining us," Gwen announced, linking her arm through one of his. "He'll be meeting us at the pub."

Branson smiled, offering his other arm to Anna. "How is he?" he asked, his face filled with concern for the younger footman.

Anna sighed and glanced at Daisy, who was walking ahead of them and at a somewhat agitated pace. "He's getting by," she murmured. "We hear only bits and pieces, of course. He's been spending most of his time there, I'm glad to say. But…it's never easy, watching someone you love slip away."

Branson felt his throat tighten at Anna's words. His mind suddenly reeled back to several weeks ago, when he stared in horror at Lady Sybil's unconscious body, lying on the ground with blood oozing from her brow. Oh God, he prayed she didn't try and do anything foolish or dangerous while in London—of course there were all kinds of dangers within the city; what about maniac drivers? London was nothing like Downton or Ripon, what if someone wasn't paying attention while she tried to cross the street and—

"Mr. Branson, are you alright?"

He let out a sudden breath, realizing he had been holding it while his mind attempted to create horrifying scenarios. Both Anna and Gwen were looking up at him with concern and confusion. "Are you unwell?" Gwen asked. "Do you want to go back—"

"No, no, I'm fine," he quickly reassured, feeling his face grow red with embarrassment. "Just…just thinking about home, that's all." He hated the lie, but he couldn't very well say the truth, could he? Without another word, he resumed walking and the two housemaids followed suit.

"That's understandable," Anna sadly sighed. "You haven't seen them since before coming to Downton?"

"No," Branson admitted, glad to be saying something that was true. "But we write often."

Anna smiled, nodding her head. "I can't imagine how hard that must be. I confess, the night I learned the news about poor William's mother, I immediately wrote a letter to my own family."

"Me too," Gwen added. "I want to be a secretary, I do, but…I don't think I could travel as far away as London; York is as far as I think I'm willing to go, I must be honest."

Branson nodded his head in understanding. "It is hard, going away from your family. And you have to do what feels right. I just knew that I could help more if I came to England; the pay here is five times better than any job I've held back in Ireland."

"Well, it certainly is admirable…and brave, I think," Anna added. "Leaving a familiar place and traveling somewhere else, all in the name of helping the ones you love. I'm sure your family is very proud of you."

Branson smiled at the compliment, but he wondered how proud his family would be if they knew the thoughts running through his head as of late. He never sent that letter to his cousin; what point was there, since he knew exactly how Martin would respond? And why bother telling his mother and siblings anything? Martin was the only one who knew about "his suffragette", and he had never gone into more detail than that. Besides…he was still trying to make sense of his own feelings, so why burden another and cause them to needlessly worry?

They soon arrived at their destination, and not long after seating themselves, William arrived. Daisy leapt to her feet as he walked in the door, a sweet smile spreading across her face, but it quickly faded at the sad look he wore. "Hello," he murmured, as he approached their table. Branson gave the footman a gentle and reassuring slap on the shoulder as he sat down, before quickly ordering him a pint.

"Glad you could come," Gwen offered, trying to be cheerful.

"My mother insisted," he muttered, his voice a mixture of bitterness and sad resolve. His drink arrived then, which he thanked the bar maid for bringing, but he simply held it in his hands, staring into the dark liquid.

Daisy nibbled her bottom lip. "How is she?"

William sighed, his eyes not leaving the glass. "It will be soon," he whispered, a slight tremble in his voice. "I…I shouldn't have left, but…but she told me she wouldn't be happy if I just 'sat around', so…I didn't want to upset her, but…" he stopped himself then, not trusting his voice and quickly took a long drink from his glass.

"So Anna," Branson quickly spoke up, hoping to help turn the focus away from William. "Have you heard any news from London?" It was common knowledge amongst most of the staff that Mr. Bates and Anna were…_close_ friends. That was all they could be at the moment; Bates was still trying to divorce his first wife, and while marriages amongst servants were not forbidden, they were certainly not encouraged.

The night before the Crawley's left for London, Branson happened to overhear a whispered conversation as he was exiting the kitchens. He looked over his shoulder and saw the two standing very close, speaking in hushed voices and gazing at one another in a way that you only did with someone to whom you…cared very deeply for. Branson quickly made himself scarce, not wanting to interrupt their tender moment. They were two of the best people he had ever met, and if anyone in that house deserved some happiness, it was the two of them.

Anna blushed at Branson's question, but a small smile spread across her pretty face. "I did receive a letter this morning," she confirmed. She didn't have to explain who the author was, they all knew. "Mr. Carson keeps them all busy, of course. The main talk is Lady Sybil's coming out ball; the whole house is in an uproar. I don't know if he'd ever admit it, but I think Mr. Carson wishes Mrs. Hughes were there to help manage things."

Branson couldn't help but chuckle at Anna's words. "I know this may sound slightly rude, and I don't mean to be, but…has it ever occurred to anyone that the two of them…?"

Anna blushed, and despite her smile tried to give Branson a look of warning, but both Daisy and Gwen burst into giggles at his words. "Yes! I always thought so too!" Gwen exclaimed, despite the look Anna shot her. "Oh don't look at me like that Anna, you've thought the same, I know you have."

"Even if I did, it's not right to talk about them like this; let their private lives be exactly that—private." Yet despite her words, a smile did betray her face. Gwen, Daisy, and Branson all burst out laughing once more. Even William managed to chuckle.

"I do feel sorry for him, though," Gwen sighed, after the laughter had died down. "Mr. Bates, I mean. Stuck in London with no one to talk to but Miss O'Brien…"

They all murmured in agreement. "It has made our lives a little easier, though," Anna added.

For the first time since arriving, William lifted his head. "One half of the terrible twosome gone," he grumbled. "Good riddance if you ask me, if only something could be done—" his face turned a bright shade of red, and he quickly lowered his eyes again. "Sorry Daisy," he mumbled under his breath.

Daisy had perked up a bit when he had joined in the conversation, but now she looked distressed, as if she had done something terribly wrong. "Why? You have no need to apologize, I…" she bit her lip and looked down at her hands which were clasped tightly together on her lap. "William…I…I'm sorry for—"

"It's you lot I feel sorry for," William purposefully interrupted, looking at the other faces around him…save the one right next to him. "No doubt a certain person has made himself 'lord of the land' in Mr. Carson's absence."

Branson glanced over at Daisy, noticing the hurt expression on the kitchen maid's face. It was clear that the girl was finally coming to the realization that Thomas wasn't worthy of the many hours she had spent day dreaming about the footman. Branson was glad that she was finally opening her eyes at last, but he was beginning to wonder if it was too late for her to make amends with the man she _should_ have been giving her devotion to.

Gwen tried to alleviate the slight awkwardness that had fallen across the table by answering William. "Mrs. Hughes keeps us all in line, and makes sure none of us forget ourselves or our positions," she explained.

William nodded his head before taking another drink from his glass. "Well…glad to hear that," he glanced briefly at Daisy, before quickly turning his attention back to the others. "So…you say they're all busy preparing for Lady Sybil's ball?" he asked Anna.

Branson knew William had only asked the question to avoid having to talk about his mother's ill health or his obvious dislike for the first footman, but he was still grateful that he had asked, because ever since Anna had mentioned it, he was extremely curious to learn more.

"Not a great deal of detail was given," Anna explained. "Simply that every day, Mr. Bates has been helping Mr. Carson manage deliveries to the house; flowers, food, that sort of thing. Apparently they're expecting a very large party; Mr. Carson has had them polish the ballroom floor twice."

Ballroom. So there _would_ be dancing.

Branson swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, and quickly took a long drink from his own pint. Why had this surprised him? After all, her party was referred to as a _ball_, which indicated right there that dancing would be a part of the evening's festivities. He wondered how Lady Sybil was as a dancer. She made it quite plain that she didn't care for balls; was that because she hated dancing? _Even if she stomped all over my feet, I would still probably think her the most graceful creature in the world…_

No, he highly doubted that she was a terrible dancer. And he was sure her dance card would be full to the brim with partners, each vying for her hand, each yearning to experience heaven by holding her in their arms…

"Tom?" Gwen jolted him from his thoughts. "Are you alright? You like you're going to be sick," she whispered.

"I'm fine," he muttered, taking a deep drink from his glass. He could feel Gwen's questioning gaze upon his profile, but chose to ignore it. He needed to calm down…

"Why do girls have 'coming out balls'?" Daisy asked. "I thought Lady Sybil was already a 'fine lady'?"

_That she is_, Branson thought to himself, but kept his mouth shut.

"I don't really understand it myself, to be honest," Anna sighed. "It's just something they do. I suppose it means that…well, now Lady Sybil is of age to receive suitors."

Daisy's eyes widened. "Do you think Lady Sybil will get married before the others?"

Despite the ale that he had been consuming, Branson felt his throat go dry at the kitchen maid's words.

Anna tried to look stern like Mrs. Hughes. "Now Daisy—"

"I wasn't trying to be rude, honest!" Daisy quickly defended. "I…well, I'm just saying…Lady Sybil's nice; she's always been nice…I'm just saying I can understand if…if she marries first—"

"I think Anna's right," Branson interrupted, trying very hard to keep his voice from betraying the emotions that were raging through him. "We probably shouldn't talk about this."

Daisy's face went crimson and she quickly looked back down at her folded hands. "I didn't mean any disrespect, honest."

"Oh we know that," Gwen reassured, trying to cheer the girl up. "And you are right, Daisy, Lady Sybil is nice. You know, I received a letter from her—"

Branson's head popped up. "What?"

Gwen simply nodded her head, not noticing the look of surprise on his face as she pulled the letter from her tiny purse. "It arrived today," she explained. "She mentions a few things about London, but most of it is about how much she misses Downton…and how she wishes we could all be at her ball."

Daisy brightened at Gwen's words and joined in the soft laughter that filled their corner of the pub. Even William was smiling. But Branson sat frozen, Gwen's words washing over him like a splash of cold water. She had written…she missed them—well, to be more precise, she missed Downton; but they were a part of Downton…_he_ was a part of Downton. Was it possible that…that she missed him as much as he missed her?

"She even sent some newspaper clippings about offices seeking secretaries," Gwen laughed. "It's very kind, but I don't think I want to travel as far as London for a job—still, she has done a great deal for me, trying to help me find a position, trying to keep my spirits up…" she sighed, folding the letter once more and returning it to her purse.

How he wanted to snatch it out of her hands, to read Sybil's penned words with his own eyes. _But it's not _your_ letter_, he reminded himself. No, and it was another bitter reminder that no matter how blurry that divide sometimes seemed, it was still very much there. While some would frown upon the fact that a fine, well-born lady was keeping a housemaid for a pen pal, anyone who knew Lady Sybil Crawley wouldn't be too shocked by the reality. But exchanging letters with the chauffeur? A _male_ servant? Out of the question.

"Will you say something from us when you write back?" Daisy asked, her eyes bright and her grin large. "I mean…I know I'm not supposed to speak to any of them unless asked, but this is writing, which is different, don't you think?" she nibbled her lip, a look of confusion clouding her features. "I mean, there wouldn't be harm if you wrote it, would there? I wouldn't be forgetting myself—"

Gwen laughed. "Oh Daisy, don't over think it. I will be sure to tell her that we all wish her the very best, especially at her ball." Daisy seemed satisfied with this, and everyone around the table smiled in agreement, including William who seemed to be brightening a bit, more and more, as the conversation carried on to other topics.

Well, almost everyone.

Branson gave a faint smile to Gwen's suggestion; enough at least to keep anyone from wondering if something were wrong. While the others talked he nodded his head and occasionally joined in their laughter, even though he had no idea what they were saying. His thoughts were elsewhere. Or, to be honestly specific, they were in London…

The evening soon came to a close. William was beginning to feel the urgency to return to his mother, so he rose and bid them all a goodnight, sharing a lingering look with Daisy before quickly darting outside before she could say anything. A pout began to form on the kitchen maid's face, and during the entire walk back to the house, she grumbled about how she only wanted to tell William how sorry she was for her behavior to him, that she knew she was wrong, but how could she when he refused to listen or even look at her for more than a few seconds? Anna and Gwen tried to soothe her, allowing Branson to fall back a little.

This was how it was meant to be. He here; doing his job, taking care of his Lordship's cars and spending time with the other servants, the friends he was meant to have. Far away from her, where she prepared for a grand ball, filled with posh folks like herself, dancing with posh gits who better treat her with respect and keep their filthy hands from wandering—

"Mr. Branson?" Anna called.

He almost stumbled. They were back at the house already?

"Would care to join us for a cup of tea with Mrs. Hughes?"

While he knew it would be good for him to not be alone where he could fester with these unpleasant thoughts, he politely declined. He wouldn't be very good company right now anyway. He said goodnight to the girls, thanking them again for inviting him to join them, and turned on his heel to head back to his cottage. But he hadn't gone a few feet when he heard footsteps coming up quickly behind him.

"Gwen?" he looked confused as she rushed over to his side.

"Tom, wait!" she hissed, glancing quickly over her shoulder before facing him fully. "This is for you," she whispered.

He looked down at her extended hand and noticed she was holding something out to him. Something small…and flat…that looked like—

"What is it?" he asked, his eyes never leaving the object. His throat had gone dry again. And even though his rational head was shouting at him to not be so foolish, his heart couldn't help but swell with hope…

"What does it look like?" she teased with a slight roll of her eyes. "It came with my letter; I didn't open it, I swear!" She groaned when he still didn't make a move, so she thrust it into his hand, forcing him to take it. "Goodnight," she whispered. He looked up at her and swore he saw something in her eyes, something that seemed to say…she knew; but that it was alright, his secret was safe. He called out a thank you while she quickly headed back to the house before either Anna or Daisy realized she had disappeared.

He moved quickly, retreating inside his cottage and locking the door, before looking down at the small, white square that he now held in his hands.

_Branson_. That was all; just his name. But it was his name clearly penned by her fine hand.

A shaky breath escaped his lungs. Should he open it? Or was it better to burn the damned thing and pretend it never happened? Was it possible for him to pretend that? _You're prolonging this_, his brain charged him. _You admitted earlier that it was better for things to be the way they are, for you to be with _your kind_, leaving hers to her own. There's no good way for this to end, you know that!_

Indeed, he did know that. And he stood there, his back and head leaning against the door, his eyes closed as he listened to that rational voice. After what seemed like an agonizing eternity, he finally opened his eyes and looked down at the envelope in his hands. "Shut up," he muttered, before tearing the seal and opening the letter. _His_ letter…from Lady Sybil, herself.

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><p><em>Hope you enjoyed! Let me know your thoughts! Thank you!<em>


	25. Downton to London: Branson's Letter

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

Lady Sybil,

Did you manage to surprise me? What if I told you your letter stunned me into silence (a rare thing as we both know!) Does that answer your question? And do you have spies here at Downton? Your guesses on my facial expressions are spot on! Indeed, I was puzzled when Gwen approached me with your letter, and yes, I do believe my brow was furrowed (do I do that often?) My eyes did go wide as I realized what it was she was giving me and from where it had come, and naturally, after reading the first few sentences, how could I not smile? Although I do protest slightly; my grin is by no means "teasing".

Now let me see if I can imagine you? I'm guessing that upon receiving your letter, you put on your best smile with perhaps a slight mix of smug haughtiness and angelic innocence, which you displayed when thanking Mr. Carson for delivering you the message (did he scowl? No doubt he did.) I'm assuming that no matter what time of day the post arrived, you could not open your letter immediately, due to being shackled in a room, condemned to write more invitations or entertain posh guests, and so your smile soon melted to form a pout because you were being "forced" to have to wait to read your letters until a significant time later in the day. And now, I'm imagining you scowling at my words, not so much because you know that I guessed correctly, but because you hate having to admit that I was right (especially about the pout), and are no doubt turning bright red, wishing I were nearby so you could inflict your fist upon me, but because I'm not…you are only growing redder with rage.

…How's that for a "witty retort"? Has my "cheek" outdone yours?

In all seriousness, your letter did take me by surprise, but as I said, it is very welcomed, and it does please me to hear how you and your family are faring in London, although like you, I'm sorry to hear that you have not yet had the opportunity to explore the city and see the things you were hoping to see. But I am glad you have not given up hope, and pray that perhaps by the time this letter reaches you, some of those wrongs have been put to right?

Life here has been very quiet. Mrs. Hughes keeps us all busy, so sadly there is no time for late-night antics around the dining room table. Although that is an interesting vision! Clearly your imagination is fascinating as well as possibly worrying. Do I dare share that image with Gwen? Best keep it to myself; Gwen may burst into laughter every time Mrs. Hughes steps into the room, thus leading to awkward explanations and unnecessary reprimands. Much of my time is spent in the garage, as usual, fixing and working on his Lordship's cars, with the occasional call to Crawley House to drive Mrs. Crawley on several errands. I'm sorry to say (although perhaps you will be pleased by this news?) that I have not attended any political meetings since you have left. Mainly for the reason there hasn't been little news of anything, even in York. I think you are far more likely to hear anything while in London. When I was there, I remember sometimes hearing speakers in the mid afternoon in several of the city parks. Sadly I don't remember which park I was in, but I do remember that most of the speakers I heard were suffragettes, so perhaps you can convince one of your "jailers" to release you for an afternoon stroll and you'll find yourself lucky to hear something?

Now, about this "presentation" business; I must say, it certainly is a dilemma that has never crossed my mind—I never once imagined ever being in a situation where I would have to face a monarch. But I will say this: Lady Sybil Crawley…terrified? Surely we can't be talking about the same person? The Lady Sybil I know is fearless! She helps housemaids who yearn to become secretaries by writing references and answering advertisements. She drives a horse and cart through busy streets, and even after said horse has thrown a shoe, treks miles through muck and grime. She speaks her mind, never backing down no matter how staunch the opinions of others are, and even though she shouldn't have…she defended the chauffeur when his job was threatened. So whoever this terrified person you speak of is, it _can't possibly_ be the same lady I know…

And I have been checking the papers ever since receiving your letter; still no news about an earl's daughter being thrown into the Tower. But even by the extreme off chance that that had happened, I have no doubt you would have concocted some clever scheme to break free. So you see, the headline that is far more likely is, "Earl's Daughter Escapes the Tower!" followed by some extreme price should she be captured.

But I know that such a headline will never come, why? Because I know that by the time you have received this letter, the whole incident will have passed, and hopefully you'll smile at the memory of how nervous you were, because in reality, you were splendid. I wasn't there, but I imagine you entering that room, your head held high and despite any nervous feeling inside, showing nothing but confidence. You walk forward, your posture perfect, make your curtsy, and then walk away without one trip or stumble, dazzling Her Majesty and putting those other girls to shame. I know that I'm right, because I know that when you set your mind to anything, you do nothing but amazing work. And as for this so called "instructor", begging your pardon, but she's a fool; you are not the kind of person one "gives up on", and all I can say is that I hope she nearly choked on her surprise when you outshined everyone else, as I have no doubt that you did.

But by all means, I think you should demand that everyone who attends your ball arrive with books on their heads. Let them choose the book as well, that way you can get a better understanding of the kind of people they are, based on whatever it is they're reading. It will certainly help you think of something to discuss with all the strangers you've had to invite. By the way…will that ball have taken place by the time you receive this?

I will confess that yes, I did chuckle several times during your letter, (I still haven't decided if the image of Mrs. Hughes dancing on the table, or you with a giant book over your head is more amusing than the other), but I'm sorry to disappoint you in one respect; I must admit, that I am in total agreement with her Ladyship. You are not "beyond all hope" as you or your former governess may believe. In my opinion, one which I know is shared with others here, you _already_ are a fine young lady of society. Proper? Well, some may think you writing letters to housemaids and chauffeurs is anything but, but those people, if I may be so bold, aren't worthy of _your_ society. Everything you've ever done has been for the good of others; what can be more proper than that? At least that's how I have seen it—and I'm not the only one. So once again, I'm going to disappoint you by refusing to agree with you about being a "spoiled rich girl"; I know that these fine parties and dinners may seem tedious at the moment, but every introduction you make will once again prove to all those posh folks what a fine young lady you are…and perhaps they'll walk away inspired by you to make some positive changes for the world. We can only hope!

Well, I know Gwen has included some mention about all of us wishing you the very best for your ball, so I won't add more to it—although I do wish you the very best, please don't misunderstand me! If it has already taken place, I hope it was a great success, well, I mean, I _know_ it was a great success, naturally it would be, and—forgive me, I'm babbling and wasting paper, so I will quickly draw my letter to a close (it is late as I write this, so no doubt it's a lack of sleep that's making me sound like a complete idiot—not that I mind writing, no matter how late it is, please don't misunderstand—you know, I'm just going to stop, because I don't think I'm making any sense).

Thank you for your letter, milady. I do hope that your time in London is enjoyable and that all you hope to do and see takes place, and very soon. If by some chance I do attend any meetings, I promise to keep all boasting and bragging to a minimum…at least for the first day after you return. There! Now it is your turn to send a retort!

All the best to you and your family,

—Branson

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><p><em>What did you think? Please let me know! Also, do you have any thoughtssuggestions on what Sybil should say in her letter back? Please feel free to share them! Thanks again for reading!_


	26. London to Downton: Sybil's 2nd Letter

_I had wanted to get this posted in time for Valentine's Day, but hopefully, despite being a day late, you can still feel the romance in the words! A short chapter here, but the next one which I hope to post within a day or two, will be longer. Hope you enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Six<strong>

Dear Branson,

First of all, I did not pout! You should count yourself lucky that you are back at Downton, or else you may very well have felt the infliction of my fist! You are very sure of yourself, aren't you? What if I told you that I hadn't been longing to open my letters? Or that I was in a place where I could open and read them at my own leisure at the very moment I had received them…but chose to wait? What would you say then? I'd like to think it would wipe that smug and *teasing* grin off your face—and yes, your grin _is_ teasing. And yes…Carson did frown. But I'm sure it's because he knows what an arrogant…well, I can't say what I really think, because it is not the sort of thing "fine young society ladies say"…so there!

I don't know if you deserve to hear about my latest adventure in London…

Oh Branson, despite your "cheek" (which will never outdo my own, thank you very much!) I can't contain myself; I am bursting with so much excitement!

It happened! I finally got to go to the British Museum! I included a postcard with this letter—I hope it wasn't too creased? But oh it was wonderful! Better than anything I imagined! But I am getting ahead of myself, I need to slow down and start at the beginning…

My presentation was nearly a week ago, and I will not deny, I was feeling an utter wreck! I had spent many hours the night before, walking up and down the hallway outside my room, balancing a silly book on my head, attempting to curtsy and walk backwards, but it was no good; the stupid thing kept falling! It looked as it if it were beyond all hope and in my nervousness I barely slept a wink that night.

When morning came, I wasn't much better. My palms were sweaty, my legs were shaking, and I'm sure I looked a particular shade of green (I didn't dare try to eat anything, despite Mama's fussing).

But then the most extraordinary thing happened! I was whisked away to join the other young ladies, all of whom looked so poised and polished, not one hair sticking out of place, not one bit of perspiration covering their brows…and as I looked around at them all, I suddenly just…had this feeling wash over me, and I heard this voice whisper in my head, _"You can do this."_ This will sound strange, and please don't go running to the authorities at Bedlam, but…it wasn't _my voice_. It was very calm and very encouraging, full of confidence and pride. And all my worries just…melted away. My name was announced, and without a second thought, I lifted my chin and entered the room, my back straight, my head held high, and can you believe it…I didn't stumble or trip or second guess myself! It was, more or less…perfect! I was absolutely stunned by it all! Mama and Papa congratulated me afterwards, but I think they were quite surprised too! I know Granny was shocked; she couldn't speak for a good five minutes! But oh I wish you could have been there to see it—and thank you, Branson—I don't deserve your kind words, and I certainly don't think I "dazzled" anyone, but…well, I must be honest, I think your encouraging thoughts was what helped me! Does that sound strange? Well even if it does, I don't care; thank you! I _may_ just forgive you for your cheek…

Well, after the success of my presentation, Papa declared that we must celebrate! I believe Mama and Granny thought I would be happy with another trip to Bond Street, but I surprised everyone when I announced that I would dearly love to visit the British Museum! Oh you should have seen them! They all stared at me with wide, disbelieving eyes and opened mouths…well, all but Granny; she was tight-lipped. But Papa smiled and chuckled and said something along the lines of "typical Sybil", and agreed to take me the following day (I was right, none of the others were interested in joining me). And as I said before, it was wonderful! I saw so many amazing things! Ancient statues from Greece and Rome, the Winged Lions of Babylon, the Rosetta Stone, and of course the mummies! I think Papa was surprised that I wasn't disgusted by the sight of the unwrapped corpses, but I wasn't, I was truly fascinated! And oh Branson, the reading room…how spectacular! It was better than I could have imagined, truly!

But I must confess…the whole time I was there, I kept thinking about you. I—that is—well—what I mean is, I kept thinking about how much fun the two of us would have, dashing around, looking at everything, pointing at various objects here and there, and just having a lark! Next year, I promise! I will be on my very best behavior, so that Mama and Papa will consider bringing you with us so you can join me on this excursion, because I promise you, Branson, this is _not_ the last time I visit this extraordinary place!

Everything else seems to pale in comparison to it.

My coming out ball takes place tonight, actually. I wanted to write my letters before it started, for I have little doubt that I will be forced to attend the _entire_ thing. I suppose I would be a very poor hostess if I left in the middle of my own ball. And while your defense is very kind, I must confess that I am already selfishly plotting ahead; if I am a success tonight, surely Mama will allow me a stroll through a park one afternoon…where I just may happen upon a political speech by a fellow suffragette? Oh I am wicked! But thank you so much for your tip about the parks! Maybe _I'll_ have something to boast and brag about when I return to Downton?

And by the way, I do love your idea, about making all the guests balance books on their heads! What a sight that would be! Possibly more amusing than Mrs. Hughes dancing atop the dining room table? I don't think Granny saw the same amusement in it however; I joked about it this afternoon at tea, and she simply gave me that tight-lipped look of hers, as if she's trying to discern what insult to throw. Mary and Edith found it amusing, but one swift look from Granny and they immediately hushed their giggles. Ah well! I just hope that my guests won't mind if I go on and on about everything I saw at the museum—that will certainly be my main topic of conversation this evening!

It's getting late and I'm afraid I must finish my letter here, although I know I could write on and on. Thank you so much for replying; I hope you will be able to write again soon! And in all seriousness, even though I will be extremely envious of you for having the opportunity to attend a rally, I do hope the chance arises soon! But thank you again for all your helpful suggestions and your words of kindness. I do not deserve them; you are far too good to me.

All right, Lucy, our London maid, is hovering over my shoulder waiting anxiously to help me prepare for tonight. Thank you for your warm wishes for a successful ball! Don't worry, I didn't misunderstand. And while I appreciate Gwen's good words on the matter, I am very glad to have yours as well.

In fond friendship,

—Lady Sybil Crawley,

_Now_ an "official" proper young lady of society…with perfect posture to match! (And who completely agrees with you about those that are truly worthy of being a part of _my_ society!)

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><p><em>Thanks for reading! If you can, please drop me a comment, I love hearing from readers!<em>


	27. Prince Charming

_So I always wondered about Sybil's coming out ball. Here's my take on perhaps how it went. Thanks so much for reading! Please let me know your thoughts, I love hearing from readers! Enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Seven<strong>

Sybil stared in amazement from the balcony that overlooked the crowded foyer of Crawley House. There were more people here than she realized! Her eyes scanned the room quickly, trying to make out any faces that she might recognize, but despite nearly two full weeks of nothing but endless introductions, there wasn't one face that stood out to her.

"Sybil!" she looked down at the bottom of the stairs, where both Mary and Edith stood, dressed in their finest and wearing dazzling smiles to match, but the look in their eyes told her to hurry up and join them. She took a deep breath and glanced at her reflection one last time in a hall mirror. Her gown was a deep turquois, with silver beading across the bodice. The color reminded her of a peacock, but Granny insisted that it would make far more of an impression than the gown she had brought, which was a "mere shade of forgettable blue". At least she had won the battle of leaving out the elaborate, feathered headdress—then she really would look like some exotic bird! She gave her cheeks a quick pinch, ran a gloved hand across her brow, smoothing a few stray wisps of brown hair, and then carefully, but quickly, descended the stairs to join her impatient-looking sisters.

It was her ball, and so in a sense she was "the guest of honor", but at the same time, she was also playing hostess alongside her mother and father, and so needed to be there to greet her guests as they arrived. "Sybil," Mary said, with her best smile. "I would like you to meet Mr. Ewing; he's a friend of Mr. Napier's…" Sybil turned her attention to Mr. Ewing, a handsome man who looked to be the same age as Mr. Napier, and who gave an elegant bow as well as gentle kiss to the back of her hand that would send any girl into a fit of blushing giggles.

"I am honored to make your acquaintance, Lady Sybil," Mr. Ewing murmured, when his eyes lifted to meet hers after kissing her hand.

"Thank you," Sybil answered, a blushing smile filling her face. "And thank you for coming."

"The pleasure is all mine," Mr. Ewing practically purred, before offering his arm to her. Sybil nibbled her lip, unsure if she should accept the gentleman's arm or stay by her sisters' side to greet guests. Of all the things she had been taught over the past few days in preparing for this ball…no one had mentioned how she should handle gentlemen callers!

"Go on!" Mary hissed, practically pushing Sybil into Mr. Ewing's arms.

However, before an embarrassing display could take place, she was rescued by Edith, who linked her own arm through Sybil's, and dragged her away from Mr. Ewing, across the foyer, towards her parents. Despite Mr. Ewing's handsomeness, she couldn't deny that she was grateful to her sister for taking her away.

However, her feelings of gratitude quickly faded.

"Sybil, this is Mr. Pembrooke," Edith grinned, practically thrusting her younger sister in front of the gentleman. He was a handsome man as well—not as tall as Mr. Ewing, and considerably younger looking as well, but his smile seemed warm and inviting, and he too made an elegant bow before her. "Mr. Pembrooke is the brother of my dear friends Martha and Georgina Pembrooke; you remember them, don't you?"

Sybil forced a smile for her sister; yes she remembered the Pembrooke twins quite well. They were Edith's age and had attended her coming out ball several years ago. They were pretty girls, but also the vainest creatures Sybil had ever encountered. She remembered the two of them spending more time ogling a mirror in the ballroom rather than dancing. She also remembered the two of them looking down their nose at her when she ventured to make an appearance, even though she was only fourteen at the time.

"Oh Edith, how charming!" one of the Pembrooke girls tittered, as she came up beside her brother. The way she spoke one would think she were addressing a puppy rather than a human being.

The other Pembrooke sister appeared. Sybil could never tell them apart. "My, my…what a fetching color…" she eyed Sybil's gown with a slightly, reproachful gaze. "I guess she wanted to be the center of attention tonight, didn't she?" Sybil could feel her face burn at the girl's shadowed insult, but before she could think of a clever retort, she felt a familiar arm wrap around her shoulders and turn her away from Mr. Pembrooke and his horrid sisters.

"Sybil, dear," her mother murmured in her ear, guiding her in another direction, this time towards the ballroom entrance. "There is a gentleman your father and I want you to meet!"

_Another one?_ Sybil tried to give her mother a pleasing smile, but her head was spinning with all these introductions.

"Ah, here is my daughter!" her father declared, standing tall and smiling down at her. Sybil smiled back and then turned her gaze to the small group of people who he had been conversing with. "Sybil, may I introduce some good friends of mine? This is Lord Meredith, Viscount Billingsworth, and his son, Jasper."

Sybil made her curtsy to the two gentlemen; their faces looked kind and sincere.

"Lord Meredith is a patron of the British Museum—"

Sybil's eyes lit up at her father's information, and throwing all the rules about propriety out the window, immediately interrupted her father. "Oh I was just there a few days ago! It's fascinating! The Egyptian Collection is one of the finest in the world; I even read somewhere that it is perhaps even finer than the museum in Cairo—"

"Oh goodness!" Lord Meredith laughed. "You misunderstand your father, my dear. I am a patron strictly in the financial sense. I confess I don't really care for ancient artifacts; far too dusty!" he laughed at his own joke and then proceeded to prove his point by removing his handkerchief and blowing his nose.

Sybil's heart sank at the man's words. She smiled kindly at Lord Meredith's son, but had a feeling he shared similar views to those of his father.

"There you are!" Sybil suddenly felt herself wrenched from her mother's side by her grandmother, who was dragging her away to meet yet another gentleman. "Sybil, this is the Earl of Livingston," Granny stated proudly. "And his mother, a dear friend of mine." Sybil's face paled as she was introduced to the Earl, who couldn't have been much older (or younger) than her own father! He was both shorter and rounder than all the men she had met this evening, and was clearly growing a moustache and beard in trying to imitate His Majesty.

"Ah, Lady Sybil," he bowed. "Wonderful to meet you, at last…and congratulations on a fabulous presentation."

Sybil put on a smile and gave a curtsy, but wondered if her grandmother was truly serious about "setting her up" with this gentleman. "Thank you, my lord," she murmured.

"She is pretty, Violet, you weren't lying about that!" Lady Livingston more or less declared to her grandmother's ear. "Perhaps a little too curvy for a girl her age, but nothing that a good corset can't fix!"

Sybil's face reddened as she was sure everyone was able to hear the dowager countess's words across the busy ballroom. She could feel eyes all upon her, and Lord Livingston even seemed to be "appraising" her, looking her up and down as if she were an item on display at some store.

"I say, Lady Sybil…has anyone asked for your hand?"

The color that had flooded Sybil's face drained once more as she gazed in shock and horror at Lord Livingston. She had only turned eighteen a few weeks ago; she had just had her presentation! Now there was talk about marriage?

"Sybil," her grandmother was smiling, but looked ready to throttle her for being so quiet. "Answer his lordship; surely your dance card is empty at present?"

Her dance card! A sudden wave of relief washed over. It wasn't marriage that he was proposing, but a dance. "Yes, Granny," she reassured. "I…I beg your pardon, my lord, I was—"

"Overcome with surprise, I understand," Lord Livingston grinned. "Happens all the time!"

Sybil frowned at the man's self-assurance, but allowed him to lead her out onto the dance floor. Her frown didn't go away as she noticed his eyes drifting lower and lower to the expanse of her bosom. They began dancing, and he began speaking, although it looked as if he were a carrying on a conversation with her breasts. "So what have you been doing in London?"

How she wanted to reply with a sharp retort: "_they_ go wherever I go, my lord, so why don't you ask _me_ that question?"

But she didn't. "Very little," she answered honestly. "However the other day, I did visit the British Mus—"

"Oh I see she's still going on about that," teased Lord Meredith's son, who was dancing with one of the Pembrooke sisters. "Careful there, my lord, she wouldn't talk about anything else!"

Sybil's frown darkened at the quip. She had barely said anything about the subject, and it had all been directed at his father! How dare he presume—

"Why am I not surprised," groaned the Pembrooke girl. "She's always been like that, trust me."

Sybil opened her mouth to retaliate, but Mary and Mr. Ewing were suddenly beside her. "Close your mouth for heaven sakes!" her sister hissed rather harshly. "You look utterly ridiculous!"

Sybil stared in shock at her sister, the cruel words slapping her hard. Suddenly she was being jerked away from the dancing arms of Lord Livingston and thrust into the arms of another gentleman, her mother appearing and making the introduction. Sybil didn't even time to curtsy, before being ripped from that man and taken to another, this time with her father making the introduction. He hadn't even managed to finish saying the gentleman's name, before her grandmother was carrying her off to another gentleman, and then another, and then another, and her head was spinning wildly, all the faces becoming a blur, all the names overlapping into a larger and louder din, and she just wanted to throw her head back and scream!

"Milady?"

Everything stopped. The noise, the swirl of the room—it all melted away as the crowds parted, revealing the man whose beautiful Irish brogue had called out to her.

"Branson?" she was utterly shocked at seeing him there. But there he was, smiling proudly, standing straight and tall. He wore his fine chauffeur's livery, which she always thought he looked very handsome in. The dark green of the fabric truly brought some of the green out in his eyes. He had removed his hat, and was holding it against his chest in one hand, allowing the soft light from the overhead chandeliers to reflect some of the gold in his fair colored hair. His other hand was extended…towards her. "How…?" she was at a loss for words. What was he doing there? When did he arrive? _Why_ was he here? So many questions were swirling through her head, but they all ceased the moment she heard his question…

"May I have the honor of this dance, milady?"

As if by some unseen magic, the quartet that had been hired to play for her ball immediately began the first cords of a waltz.

Sybil's eyes only widened, still lost in her shock, but a smile was beginning to spread across her face. "Do you…do you know how to…?" she blushed, feeling foolish for asking the question, not meaning to sound snobbish for asking if he knew how to waltz.

His kind eyes only seemed to sparkle, and he gave an elegant bow, before stepping forward and taking her gloved hand in his own. "Only one way to tell," he murmured, with a bit a roguish smile. Was it her imagination, or did her toes just curl inside her slippers? Without another word, he gently pulled her towards him, his chauffeur's cap suddenly gone and his left hand taking hers while his right curled around her back…before settling just above her waist.

Did her heart stop beating? No…it was pounding even harder. So hard in fact, she swore it was drowning out the music. Never had she been so intimate with him, and all the quips and teases and retorts that the two of them had shared over the past year since his arrival seemed to melt away. He was no longer Branson, the Downton chauffeur, or even Branson, her best friend. He was now Branson…the man. And she was very, very aware of his…maleness.

Sybil tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but it seemed impossible. Her eyes were focused on his chin; she didn't dare look up into his own. Not that she thought she would find him laughing at her, but for the simple reason that if she looked up at him, she knew that all the blood would drain from the rest of her body and settle there on her cheeks for the entire world to see. If his hand weren't holding her steady, her knees would have buckled beneath her. In truth she couldn't feel her feet.

Her left hand held his shoulder even tighter, trying to steady herself better, and she gasped at the feel of the muscle beneath her fingers. Her eyes moved from his chin to the expanse of his chest; he was very broad, and he had always looked muscular. Now she could feel the evidence.

"Trust me, milady…" he whispered.

She did it; she looked up into his eyes and gripped his hand and shoulder even tighter.

She had been wrong. All the heat didn't leave her body to rush to her face; she could feel heat radiating from his fingers where his hands touched her, and it was flowing throughout her entire being.

It frightened her, these strange feelings. But she looked into his eyes and felt the fear begin to drift away. His smile wasn't teasing...but it was much more than reassuring. It was something else, an emotion she couldn't quite describe…but one that made her heart beat even louder.

Without another word, he began to lead her in the waltz, and Sybil followed his steps, amazed at how well he danced. "I…I never thought you were one for dancing," she murmured with a blush.

He chuckled, a beautiful sound that spread even more warmth throughout her body. "I suppose it's not the typical thing we Irish Socialists are known for."

Sybil couldn't help but giggle with him. "Suppose not; but then we suffragettes aren't typically known to allow men to lead us this willingly."

They both laughed then, and Sybil felt ease and comfort wash over her. Her ball which seemed to be going horribly but a few minutes ago had magically become the opposite, all in thanks to her dear friend. She looked up at him, her gaze locking with his. "Why…why did you come?"

He slowed his steps a little, as if they were merely swaying to the music. "Do you wish that I hadn't?"

"No!" Sybil shook her head, worry flooding her that he would think that. "No, no, please don't leave." Both her hands grasped his shoulders, bringing him closer to her, should someone try to take him away. "I'm glad you're here, truly. I don't want you to go."

He smiled, and moved his hands up to hers. "I'm not going anywhere, milady," he promised. He took her right hand in his left, and moved his left back to her waist and resumed the waltz once more. "I came because you asked me, remember?"

Sybil nibbled her lip, her fingers still holding firm to him, but she blushed and nodded her head, trying to relax. She remembered telling him how much she wished he could be there, how she had yearned for him to see her at her presentation, how she longed to explore the city with him by her side. Every day she thought of home, of Anna and Gwen and her other friends, her _true_ friends back at Downton…but if she were completely honest with herself, she knew that the one person she thought about more than anyone else was him…and she dearly, dearly missed him…

"Thank you," she whispered, emotion swelling in her voice. She moved her eyes once more to his chin…and then lifted them just slightly to his lips. Was she floating? She swore she couldn't feel her feet at all, which was probably a good thing because she was sure they would give out beneath her.

"Don't worry," he murmured, as if reading her thoughts. "I'll always be there to catch you and carry you to safety…"

She lifted her eyes to his.

How long had the music stopped? Was it her imagination, or was the ballroom empty? Did it matter? All she could focus on were his beautiful eyes…and the fact that he was here, standing before her…and she was safe in the circle of his arms…

"Branson…" she whispered his name.

"Tom," he murmured.

A blushing smile spread across her face. "Tom…" she repeated.

They weren't dancing any longer, but they were still holding one another. She felt both his hands behind her, wrapped around her waist, his fingers pressed against her back, pulling her closer. Both her hands were once again on his shoulders, and she was pulling him towards her, the warmth of their bodies flooding her whole, swallowing her from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. Her eyes kept flicking back and forth from his to his mouth. All the kisses she had experienced in life were chaste ones, given on the cheek or the back of her hand. They were always friendly or familial, never anything more. She had never been kissed on the lips before…

"Sybil…"

He was a breath away. She could feel his breath touching her face, and her own had become quite erratic as the tips of her toes lifted her slightly, helping her move closer, higher…

"Sybil…"

"Tom…"

"Sybil!"

Sybil's eyes flew open and she sat straight up at the sudden shake on her arm. She looked up and to find Edith hovering over her, looking down at her with a creased brow and a somewhat sour expression. "I can't believe you're still sleeping!" she admonished with a roll of her eyes. "It's nearly eleven! Matthew and Isobel will be here in less than thirty minutes before we leave for Vauxhall—don't just sit there and stare at me, get up!" Without another word, Edith turned on her heel and left the room, the door banging in her wake.

Sybil stared for a long time at the shut door, her head spinning and her heart beating rapidly.

A dream.

It had all been a dream.

She groaned and fell back against the pillows, trying to calm her erratic heart and aching head as the memories of the previous night slowly returned.

The ball had more or less been declared a success, at least that was what Granny had said. She had danced all but two dances, and that was only because her feet were aching for a rest. She had met a Mr. Ewing, a Mr. Pembrooke, the son of Lord Meredith, and the Earl of Livingston, among others…and each of them were exactly as her dream had recalled. She had spent a good deal of time spinning around the room, not just with dance partners, but also in making various introductions and receiving various congratulations on her presentation. She had been able to discuss her love for the British Museum with a few, and while they were polite and smiled at her retelling, none of them showed great interest in carrying the conversation further. A majority of the conversations she either partook in or overheard dealt predominately with who was invited to who's ball, who had been seen in the park or at the theatre, and the personal favorite of her guests: who had caused the latest, biggest, and most delicious scandal. Nothing at all related to politics, to the struggles of women or the working man or even any of the tensions taking place on the continent. It was all very…superficial, it seemed.

It was long past midnight before the last of her guests finally trickled out. With aching feet she managed to climb up the stairs and stay awake just long enough for Lucy to help her out of her gown. Again, she was glad she had chosen to write her letters before the ball took place.

A deep blush flooded her cheeks as she turned on her side and slowly pulled Branson's crumpled letter out from beneath her pillow. It had arrived two days ago, but with the amount of times she had read it, she practically had it memorized. She turned red when he teased her, laughed at his jokes, but most of all, she felt her heart swell with each encouraging word he had written…

_Lady Sybil Crawley…terrified? Surely we can't be talking about the same person? The Lady Sybil I know is fearless! _

…_by the time you have received this letter, the whole incident will have passed, and hopefully you'll smile at the memory of how nervous you were, because in reality, you were splendid._

_You are not "beyond all hope" as you or your former governess may believe. In my opinion, one which I know is shared with others here, you _already_ are a fine young lady of society. _

She had thanked him in her own letter for his kindness and reassurance, but her written words expressed little about the immense emotion that she truly felt every time she read his letter. If everyone who had come to her ball last night had turned their backs on her…it wouldn't matter. Branson believed in her; he always had.

A groan escaped her throat as she rolled onto her back, momentarily closing her eyes and trying to drown out the world.

She was confused. It would be a lie to say that she hadn't dreamt about him before. But her other dreams were never as…vivid…as this one had been.

"Alright, no sense in being silly about such things," she muttered to herself, trying to sound much older than she was. "This is a crush…nothing more. After all, Mary once had a crush on a stable boy, and even though Edith denies it, she once had a crush on Thomas. It's perfectly natural for girls to have crushes, and it makes sense that a girl would have a crush on someone she's rather close to, or who she sees regularly…" Yet it seemed that no matter how hard she tried to reason her dream and the feelings that went with it…there was a part of her that kept coming up with a rebuttal. _He understands you better than anyone; he supports your beliefs; he's willing to listen to your questions; he's always been open and honest with you; you and he are more alike than you are with any other man—_

A sharp knock on the door announced Lucy's arrival, and quickly silenced the arguing voices inside Sybil's head. "Come in!" she invited, grateful to have her mind preoccupied with something else.

Lucy entered, grinning brightly. "Did you sleep well, milady?" she asked. The girl was finally beginning to warm up to Sybil and didn't retreat like a mouse every time Sybil tried to hold a conversation with her. "You looked so lovely last night, like a princess in a fairy tale!"

Sybil smiled and thanked Lucy for her kind words. She rose from the bed and went to her dressing table, where Lucy immediately began to work out the tangles in her hair, gushing the whole time about how she and the other maids tried to catch glimpses of the ball. Sybil just sat and listened, letting Lucy be the talkative one for a change. She tried to focus on the young maid's ramblings, but naturally her mind wandered back to her dream, recalling her dance with Branson, the way he held her, the way he looked at her, the way he spoke her name and encouraged her to call him by his…

"Did you meet Prince Charming last night?"

Sybil's eyes widened and she caught Lucy's curious gaze in the mirror. "W-w-what?" she stammered.

Lucy blushed and gave a little curtsy. "Beggin' yer pardon, milady, I was just rambling away." She changed the conversation, away from the handsome gentlemen she and the other maids had spied, and now focused on the loveliness of all the gowns they had seen from their hiding spots. But Sybil was still stuck on Lucy's last question, and found herself asking it over and over.

_Had_ she, in a way, met Prince Charming last night?

Or…did she already know him?


	28. Downton to London: Branson's 2nd Letter

_Thanks again for all the wonderful feeedback! I'm so glad people enjoyed Sybil & Branson's dance *sigh* Hopefully we can see something like that in future TV seasons! Now another letter...hope you enjoy! Please let me know your thoughts!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Eight<strong>

Lady Sybil,

Tsk, tsk, tsk…come now, you can whip a better retort than that; I've heard some of the lashings you've given to political speakers that you "highly disapprove" of (I hope I didn't upset your_ fine sensibilities_ with my choice of words there). And answer me this honestly—when you were finished…did you poke your tongue out?

You did, didn't you!

I know you, milady…and I'm shocked by such behavior. The King's guards will surely throw you in the Tower now, once word gets out. Guess you wish you hadn't called my grin "teasing" now, don't you?

But I must confess if that did happen, despite your "cheek", I would drive to London and help you escape. Of course it means we'll have to spend the rest of our lives as fugitives; can you see the posters now? "Wanted: Lady Sybil Crawley (known for her pout), and her Irish accomplice, with a 'teasing' grin." Perhaps we can form a band of merry men (and women) and make a home in Sherwood Forest? Robbing the rich to help the poor, and demanding that politicians give women the right to vote? What do you think?

Or perhaps instead of Sherwood Forest, we turn the British Museum into a hideout? Live amongst the ancient artifacts and spend all our days reading each and every book in the rotunda? What do you think of that idea? Well I must admit milady, reading your letter brought such a smile to my face that I don't think I've stopped since. Didn't I tell you that you would outshine all those other ladies? Didn't I tell you that it was impossible for you to a make a fool of yourself? Of course you were perfect! I wouldn't expect anything less. And I'm very humbled that you think my encouraging thoughts had anything to do with your success, but come now milady, we both know better than that. You had it in you all along. But knowing you, you will not be satisfied with my answer, so I will say "you are most welcome" to avoid another "scandalous retort". After all, I am hoping to be forgiven for my _apparent_ cheek…

I am also very, very pleased that you were able to finally see your museum, and I'm even more pleased to hear how much you enjoyed it! And thank you very much for the postcard! I have placed it on my windowsill next to several photographs from home; it cheers the cottage right up. I am eager for your return—I mean, I am eager for you to tell me all about it, when you return. Then you will not be restricted to the amount of paper that you contain, and can be at leisure to go into as much rich detail as you would like. And while I know you were worried about envying me while being away, I am the one who envies you! I would very much enjoy seeing the museum with you, as well as all those other places we have discussed. And I do not doubt you, milady; when Lady Sybil Crawley puts her mind to something, the world better be prepared! So of course, I know that you will be visiting that place again, and I would be most honored to accompany you.

Things are still fairly quiet here. I don't know if you've heard (I'm sure his Lordship will have by the time you've received this) but poor William's mother passed away a few days ago. He has been keeping a constant vigil by her side, and even though I can't imagine the pain and sorrow he is feeling now, I'm glad that at the very least, he was there to say goodbye. The funeral will be taking place the day after tomorrow, and we will all be attending. If I may be so bold, may I offer your condolences? I know you would wish to pass them on yourself if you were here.

And…I um…I hope your ball went very well! I'm sure it did, and no doubt you were a vis—I mean, no doubt you stunned everyone—with your presence, of course. Forgive me; I think my pen is running out of ink…

There! Now with a fresh pen in hand, I hope that your ball went very well. I said that above, didn't I? Anyway, how did it go? Now that it has passed...

I'm sorry to hear that not everyone was open to the idea of your guests balancing books on their heads. Were there other…um, gentlemen…who shared your…enthusiasm for the museum? And um, was there a great deal of…dancing? I understand Mr. Matthew and Mrs. Crawley attended; were there any…special announcements made? I um…I only ask because, as you said, you hope it will all go well so that you could perhaps take a stroll in a park to maybe hear a speaker—so, were you able to? There were some socialist speakers holding rallies in York, but I was sadly unable to attend. However, I would be eager to hear any news you can find in London; I do hope you were successful in finding something in one of those parks. So please, boast and brag away!

As for my "words of kindness" you're wrong; you do deserve them, each and every one, because they are true. And I don't know if that's possible milady, me being "too good" to you. You deserve far more than anything a simple Irishman like myself, can say.

Just as your maid was hovering over you, Thomas has come to my cottage door and is pounding on it, demanding something, so I must end this letter. Thank you again, milady, for your letter. I do hope to hear from you again, but understand if you are unable to due to being busy. I'm sure you have a great deal more to do, and besides, you don't need to waste your time writing to me when you could be sneaking some cod and chips!

All right, his pounding isn't lessening, so I bid you a fond good day.

_Also_ in fond friendship,

—Tom Branson

(A working class Irishman, whose posture is nowhere near as perfect as Lady Sybil's, but who is proud and happy to be a member of _her_ society!)


	29. 1914: A Second Letter to Martin

_Thanks so much for the wonderful feedback! This chapter will be the "beginning" to wrapping things up with Sybil's London season. _

_Also, just a quick note for you history buffs out there...The Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria, was assassinated on June 28, 1914. While it would still be a little over a month before England would declare war with Germany and the other Central Powers (Austria-Hungary, Ottoman Empire), the tensions towards going to war were already felt, even before the Archduke's assassination. One great thing about "Downton Abbey" is that it has really helped me better understand the causes around WWI...so I am trying to touch on that a little, beginning with this chapter. By no means, however, am I historian, although I am trying to be as accurate as possible; if I make a mistake, I ask for forgiveness, and please feel free to let me know so I can make the proper corrections in future chapters! THANK YOU!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Nine<strong>

Dear Martin,

I know, I know, after all my talk about not leaving it so long between letters, there I go doing the same thing. At least in my defense it wasn't nearly as long as two months. Still, I have missed talking to you, and hope that perhaps sometime this summer, we can meet for a pint. I can take a three day holiday in late August; how I would love to drive down to Devon and showoff his Lordship's Renault, but sadly, it's not mine to show off.

Once again I'm sorry for my absence. So many things have happened within the past month, but nothing to burden your mind with. I'm very happy to hear that things have progressed well between you and the lovely Rachel. Good for you for growing a spine and asking your lady to take a walk with you. I can't help it, Martin, I have to tease, and you know me. But in all seriousness, I am happy for you, and yes, as I promised, you can crow over me for being the bigger man. Now the next question becomes…will you tell Uncle Michael? Of course I'm not suggesting that you're ready to propose marriage; after all, you only asked her to take a walk with you…and offered to be her escort at the village assembly…and danced practically every dance with her…and spent nearly an entire hour, as you shamelessly described, locked in an "embrace"…

I know, I know, who am I to talk? Oh Martin…in all truth, I envy you. My…my suffragette…I…well, I think I need to take a step back. You see, I…one of the reasons I haven't written to you is because I'm still recovering from the shock of the whole situation, and wasn't quite sure how to explain. I'm making things sound ten times worse, aren't I? There was rally, here in Ripon, when the bi-election votes were counted. It was a rough crowd, full of drunkards and angry fools. A fight broke out and…she got hurt. She's perfectly fine now, but…I blame myself…completely. She and I are still good friends, by some miracle, but…oh Martin, I…I don't know if I've ever been more afraid. So, as you can see, for her safety, I've taken a step back.

At least, I'm trying. It's much easier to say than to do, isn't it?

Not that it matters. She's gone to London and will probably return with a string of suitors, forgetting all about me, and it's probably for the best, don't you think? Listen to me go on like this, like I'm some kind of heart-sick puppy. Go on, Martin, please, I'm giving you full permission to throw every kind of name at me right now.

Tell me, what was the reaction there to the recent news about the Archduke's assassination? Just when I thought I was the only one who cared about anything political in this house, I'm taken completely by surprise. With Mr. Carson gone, the housekeeper has been kind in leaving the newspapers out for me, knowing that I'm the only other person on staff who really reads them. When the story reached us, Mrs. Hughes ran to my cottage and practically banged my door down with her knocking, thrusting the headline into my tired face when I finally managed to rise and open the door. I quickly went to the kitchens, and all the other servants, including the cook and all of her staff, hovered around me as I read the story out loud. I don't know if I've ever heard that place become so quiet. Naturally there was a great deal of confusion; some of the maids didn't even know who the Archduke was, or what country he was from. But the bigger question everyone found themselves asking was, "what will this mean…for _us_?"

Even before the Archduke's assassination, I've been hearing rumors about the possibility of war. The editorials in all the papers have been filled with voices from both sides of the debate; some saying England should get in the thick of it and sort this whole situation out, stop the the Central Powers from being bullies and making others do what they want…while other voices declare that England has no right to get in the middle of it, that it should stay far away from it as possible; let the Austrians and the Germans and all of its enemies blow themselves up if that's what they want, how could a war possibly serve England? Now with this most recent news, the voices for war have grown even louder, saying this wouldn't have happened if England had stepped in and sorted the whole lot out.

I confess I'm troubled by these voices. I'm troubled by any voice, no matter whose side they're on, that screams for blood. I do think, sadly, it will take a war for Ireland to one day gain her independence, but that doesn't mean I want it. The innocent always suffer in these situations…and I'm worried about what this war talk may mean for our people, and our homeland. Will we be expected to volunteer and lay down our lives, again, for English lords and politicians that cry for victory, no matter the cost of lives? The same men who demand our blood and sweat, but turn a blind eye and deaf ear to our demands for freedom and equality? Indeed…I'm afraid war is coming, Martin, and not just one.

I apologize for the nature of this letter; I know it's not exactly one filled with jokes and merriment. The thing is, I don't know what the future will hold…so I may shock you with what I'm about to say. Martin, if you've never taken my advice before, then please at the very least…consider this: do you love your Rachel? Because if you do, don't waste any time…marry her. As soon as possible; once you've finished reading this mad letter, put it down and go and find her. Fall to your knees, beg for her hand, kiss her senselessly if you have to, but if you truly do love her as much as you claim to in your letters, then marry her right away. I'm being completely serious. To hell with what Uncle Michael thinks about the idea, this is _your_ life, so live it as you would want to live it—before someone…or some government…tries to wrench it from you.

There, I've said my peace. Whether you choose to follow my advice is up to you. You may find my words nothing more than a mad man's ramblings (and maybe they are?) but I'm not ashamed of them, and if I were in your shoes and had your choice, I would marry that girl before she slipped past me.

No need to mention any of this to our family; I know they would all think I've gone mad. But you've always been more like a brother to me than a cousin, Martin, and…well, like I said, I've said my peace and I'll stop going on about it, before I cause you to panic over my mental state.

Think about what I've said…and think about what I said about possibly meeting in August. Let me know of a good inn where I can stay when I visit…that is, of course, if you don't mind your mad cousin dropping by? All right you silly sod, you take care of yourself, and good luck to you.

—Tom


	30. London to Downton: Sybil's 3rd Letter

**Chapter Thirty**

Dear Branson,

First, I would like to thank you very much for offering my condolences to William. By no means is that too bold, and I'm very grateful and honored that you thought to do so. I did hear from Papa about the death of his poor mother. I had only learned after we left for London that she was ill. Indeed, I can't imagine the pain he is feeling…but like you, I too am glad that at least he had time to say goodbye. I hope and pray that the funeral went well (I am sure it did) and please pass on to William and everyone else that indeed, we are all thinking of him during this difficult time.

Oh Branson…as much as I enjoy exchanging quips with you (and yes, alright, you caught me: I _did_ poke my tongue out…and I thank you for not alerting His Majesty's army on the matter)…the recent news of the Archduke's assassination has brought a shadow over all of us. Both Mama and Papa were astonished by the news; even Granny seemed shocked, which I confess surprised me, for I didn't think she paid much attention to politics. I asked the most questions out of everyone, and even demanded Papa to hand me his paper to read the headlines myself. Oh Branson, what do you make of all this? I confess my first inclination after hearing the news was to run outside and head to the garage…and then I quickly realized I wasn't home. How I wish I was, simply to talk to you about this horrible tragedy. What do you think will happen? I couldn't believe how many voices were crying out for war in the editorials! Do you think that's possible? I know there is a great deal of unrest on the Continent, but do you really think that Britain will join those other nations in facing Germany and its allies? Good God, it's too much to comprehend! It would be as if…as if the entire world were at war it seems! I can't believe it…but I fear that I must face the possibility that it _could_ happen.

I tried to voice my thoughts and concerns about this matter with Papa, but he was trying to look like the "stoic Englishman", stiff-upper lip and all that, and said it was nothing to worry about, at least not at present. Mama tried to steer me away from such thoughts by insisting that all of us go out and enjoy the beautiful sunshine before having tea with my aunt. That's was the only good thing about the day…

Oh Branson; is it wrong despite all these awful things happening…to feel such a thrill of happiness? I'll explain. Granny wanted to stroll through Hyde Park, so that was where we went. Of all the parks in all of London, I thought that would be the last place I would ever hear anyone speaking, at least the kind of speech I am interested in hearing. But can you believe it? There was a woman speaker there, a genuine suffragette rally! Well, perhaps "rally" is too strong of a word, but there were people crowded around her, politely applauding her words as she called on those listening to encourage the politicians to push forward the right to vote for women, to even go so far as to cry out to His Majesty for support! I was able to sneak away from the others while they were talking with some acquaintances for at least ten minutes, gobbling up the woman's words, applauding and cheering beside supporters, before Edith found me and dragged me away. But that doesn't matter, because…it actually happened, the one thing, the thing that I wanted to see so desperately upon arriving here, even more so than attending the British Museum…I actually got to attend (in a manner of speaking) a proper, London suffragette meeting! I keep chastising myself, thinking I shouldn't feel this giddy with the recent news, but…I can't help myself!

Perhaps we can form a merry band of socialists and suffragettes to join us in Sherwood Forest? Although, I must admit, I prefer your idea of the British Museum as our hideout, instead.

I'm glad you liked my postcard; it's a silly little thing, I know, but…well, I knew you would appreciate it, and as silly as this sounds, sending it to you helped me to feel as if you were there, with me. As to what you said about sharing details with you about my adventure there (and my adventure in Hyde Park) you are right, no amount of paper will do! I hope you are prepared to be seized upon by me! I mean—oh Lord how that sounds—I mean, I hope you are prepared for my endless ramblings about all that I've seen here. Remember, you did give me permission to boast and brag.

As to your questions about my ball, thank you, it did go very well. There um…there really isn't much to say about it! Yes, sadly no one balanced books on their heads, and I'm also sad to say that there weren't many people interested in my tales about my adventures at the British Museum; Cousins Matthew and Isobel were probably the closest, but in all honesty, while Matthew listened and nodded his head to everything I said, his eyes were focused elsewhere in the room.

Oh Branson, of course there was a great deal of dancing! What a funny question. Although I think my feet are still recovering. To be honest, I was so grateful when the whole thing was over with and I was able to escape and crawl into bed—I mean, I…well, it was quite tiring and I wanted to get some sleep very badly, and I'm not saying it wasn't pleasant—the ball I mean, although my sleep was quite pleasant too—oh my I think _my_ pen is having some trouble as well, excuse me…

There! Yes, this is much better. Now um…what was I saying? Oh nothing important, I'm sure, I'll just move on…

I hope Thomas didn't break your door with his merciless pounding. It is never a "waste of time" writing to you, Branson, in fact it is a great pleasure. And by that same token, thank you for taking time to write back to me. I know Mrs. Hughes keeps all of you very busy, and no doubt you have better things to do than exchange letters with headstrong girl (even if she is deemed a "proper young lady of society")…but thank you; sometimes your letters are what help me make it through my time here. I confess…while I have enjoyed my time in London, I am ready to return home. Papa says we may be leaving earlier than originally planned; while I know this disappoints Mama and Granny, I can't deny I am somewhat relieved! Although I still haven't had the chance to sample some chips yet, but hopefully soon!

Thank you again, Branson…and if you claim that I deserve those kind words, then you should shush about being nothing more than a "simple Irishman" because you are not "simple". In my eyes, you are quite the opposite. So there (and yes, I did poke my tongue out).

God bless you,

—Sybil

(And I think your posture is perfectly fine…so there!)

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><p><em>Thanks again for all the wonderful and kind comments and reviews! I really appreciate them! Hope you enjoyed.<em>


	31. Downton to London: Branson's 3rd Letter

**Chapter Thirty-One**

Dear Lady Sybil,

You are very welcome. William thanks you and all of your family for their thoughts and prayers. The funeral did go well; I was honored with the duty of assisting as a pallbearer. Mrs. Patmore made several baskets of food for after the service. She also made several more to be given to William's father for the days ahead. I think the man will be eating like a king for well over a month. William will return to Downton before you return, but as you can understand, he is spending some time with his father now.

As for the Archduke's assassination, that has also been the main topic of conversation, at least throughout the village. When word broke out, Mrs. Hughes came running to my cottage, and I was asked to read the article out loud to everyone assembled in the kitchen. Things have died down a little bit here, mainly because a great deal of people didn't know who the Archduke was, but every so often I overhear a maid or kitchen lad mention the incident…quickly followed by the question, "what do you think will happen?"

What do I make of all this? In truth…I don't know. But I think it very ignorant for anyone to think that Britain will completely ignore it. But the war hawks are swarming; the other day I was in Ripon, running an errand for Mrs. Hughes, and saw a small crowd gathered outside a pub, urging young lads to register now for the army, to get a "head start" before anything is declared.

I wish I was there in London too, milady, or that you were here. I confess I thought the same thing when I heard the news; I kept waiting to hear your feet running across the gravel down to the garage where I was working, and had to keep reminding myself that you weren't there, sadly. But we will talk more about it later, when you do return, as well as about all the adventures you've had in London, including your most recent!

I don't think you can be faulted for feeling joy at having one of your dreams come true. Despite all these sad events and the anxious feeling that's going around, I too couldn't stop grinning at the mention of you finally hearing a speaker in one of the parks. Well done milady! I'm sorry you weren't able to stay for more than ten minutes, but even so, congratulations! You are quite right, I did give you permission to boast and brag, so yes, please…when you return, feel free to…"seize me".

No need to chastise yourself for feeling giddy, and yes, I think that's a splendid idea: socialists and suffragettes—why with a merry band of such rebels, we should surely be able to bring some positive changes to this country!

As for your ball…well, I am quite glad to hear that it went very well. And the same with the um…with the dancing. Although I am sorry to hear that your feet are still sore…which means you must have danced a great deal…yes? Any um…any particular partners whose dancing you enjoyed more than…than others? You know I dance. I mean…probably nothing like those fancy dances that you posh folks know, but I do dance! I'm guessing there weren't any Irish jigs? Shame, because I'll have you know, when I was fifteen, I entered a contest in my school, and took first place. Maybe sometime I can…um…I can teach you? And you can…you know, um…teach me? Your posh dances, I mean.

So um…I'm sorry to hear that no one really showed a great deal of interest in your tales about the museum. Begging your pardon, but they just don't have good taste. But remember, I am interested! Very interested, and please, feel free to go on and on for many long hours if you wish; I don't mind your rambles.

Not that I think you ramble! Please, I didn't mean for it to sound like that! I um…I just…well, what I'm trying to say is that we have a lot in common, don't you think? We share many common interests, and one of those is a love for learning, especially in areas of history and politics. Oh! I was in his Lordship's library two days ago, and noticed in his ledger that one of the books you commonly took out was Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South. I remember you mentioning it to me once, so I took it and began reading it that very night. I'm halfway through, and find this Thornton character both fascinating and irritating. I can tell that he's a good man, deep down, but there have been several times when I've wanted to shout and scream at his character, especially when he tries to use the Irish workers against the union factory workers. I sometimes wonder what this Margaret character sees in him; you know, in some ways…she reminds me of you. But are you surprised if I tell you that my favorite character is Nicholas Higgins? I know, who would think that a socialist like me would like the leader of the factory union? But I can see why you liked this book, and I am enjoying it too. Maybe, after you've told me everything about London…we can talk about that too?

Well…like I said, I am glad that your ball went well. And um…I hope any other balls you attended went well too. But I'm guessing, since you never said anything about it…that um…no "special announcements" were made at any of these parties? I'm just curious—Gwen, you know, she's always asking about those things.

I'm glad that my letters haven't been bothersome. And Lady Sybil, your letters have also been a pleasure to read. I don't think there is anything better. And like you…sometimes they are what help get me through the day as well. Indeed, Downton has been very…well, very dull since you left. We are all looking forward to your return, and I can't help but admit…I'm glad that it will be sooner too.

Although I do hope you get the chance to try some of those chips!

And thank you for your kind compliments, milady. And far be it from me to argue with a woman who pokes her tongue out!

God bless you as well, milady…

—Tom

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><p><em>For fellow period-drama fans, I highly encourage you to read <span>North and South<span>, or at the very least...go to your local library and see if they have a copy of the movie to watch! In the 2005 BBC production, Mr. Bates himself (Brendan Coyle) played the part of Nicholas Higgins (my little shout out to the talented Mr. Coyle). _

_Lady Sybil and the rest of the Crawley family (with the exception of Mary) will be returning to Downton in the next chapter, which will also be longer. Hope you've enjoyed these little flirtatious letters between Sybil and Branson! And they won't be the last... ;o)_


	32. Homecoming

_Hello! Sorry for the delay; this chapter took me a long time to write, mainly because I wasn't sure where I wanted to go with it-but now that I am finished, I must say I am very happy with it and hope you will enjoy it. _

_The "end" so to speak, is near (of season one). The next several chapters will begin to wrap up the details of the first season, leading to that eventful garden party where the world changes overnight. I am currently contemplating writing a "companion piece" to this story, called Love's Journey: the Missing Years (or something along those lines) which will be a shorter story that really just explores that time between the first and second series (the end of 1914 to the beginning of 1916). Let me know if that sounds like something that would interest you! I will probably not begin writing it until after I feel I have some of the second series down in this current story...but I think it would be a lot of fun, exploring those missing moments!_

_One last thing; I make several references to Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South in this chapter. I know a lot of writers reference that book in Sybil/Branson stories, which makes complete sense because it so would be a book that the two of them would read and discuss. I tried very hard not to "give too much away" about that story's plot, but I do seriously recommend it! Ok, enough babble...HAPPY READING!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Two<strong>

The day after he mailed his letter to Lady Sybil, Branson was told that Mr. Carson would be returning to Downton the day after next. "The good Lord knows why; it's not like I haven't managed the house without him, or that I'm incapable of making sure everything is ready before they return!" Mrs. Hughes muttered, more annoyed by these feelings of inadequacy rather than by Mr. Carson himself.

"So Mr. Carson will be returning before his Lordship and the family?" Branson asked, trying to keep the enthusiasm in his voice at a bare minimum.

"Aye," the housekeeper replied. "But only just one day; Mr. Carson will give you the train schedule after he returns." She then went off to go and make sure everything was in order, wanting to prove to the butler that indeed, she was _more_ than adequate in managing things.

Branson couldn't help but smile and his grin only grew more and more as he retreated back to the garage to finish his work on his Lordship's Rolls-Royce.

Three days…

He would be seeing her face again, in three days.

Hopefully his letter would arrive before her departure, he was sure it would. Although if he had known she would be returning so soon, he may have waited in sending it. A deep exhale of breath escaped his lungs as he thought about that letter. He had been very informal in it—in truth, the letters were growing more and more informal, every time they responded. In his latest, he had signed it as if he were writing to a member of his family, simply as "Tom". Did she even know his Christian name? Would she call him that, when it was just the two of them?

The more he thought about his letter, the more he was beginning to regret it. He winced as he remembered the paragraph where he declared to have some knowledge in dancing. _You know I dance. Nothing like those fancy dances that you posh folks know, but I do dance! I'll have you know, when I was fifteen, I entered a contest in my school, and took first place. _"Idiot," he muttered under his breath. Could he have sounded any more obvious or desperate? Maybe his whole paragraph on North and South would distract her from that? He could only hope.

He was reading that very book when the afternoon post arrived. He was starting to warm up a little more to the character of Thornton when Gwen knocked on his cottage door, holding an envelope with his name on it. "This just arrived for you Tom," she explained, handing it to him.

It was a reply from Martin! _That was fast_, he thought.

"So…are you excited?"

Branson lifted his head, surprised by Gwen's question. She was trying to look innocent, but it would take a blind man not to see the mischievous twinkle in her eye.

"About what?" His feigned ignorance wasn't as convincing.

Gwen, however, just nodded her head, biting her lip to contain her smile. Branson knew that Gwen would have to be thicker than paste not to have "suspected" anything, and by no means was she that. When he had sent his second letter, Gwen had written a very short note, only containing a few paragraphs, whereas his had been several sheets of paper. This third letter he had sent, Gwen didn't even bother putting a note in the envelope, even though it contained her name on the outside. He remembered looking rather sheepish when handing her his note, and she only laughed, but didn't say anything. She didn't have to, Branson could read her thoughts all across her face: _it's not as if Lady Sybil is looking forward to _my_ letters, is it?_

"Well, I better be getting back; Mrs. Hughes is pushing us extra hard to make sure everything's ready."

"Yes, well…" Branson couldn't think of anything clever, so he just thanked her for bringing his letter before quickly retreating back inside. He could hear Gwen's giggle as she jogged back up towards the house. He was grateful for Gwen's discretion, and for the basic fact that she never out-right asked him why he and Sybil were exchanging letters. He was even more grateful for the fact that she was willing to be his "accomplice" in getting his letters to Sybil. But at the same time, it wasn't the same as having someone to actually confide in. Martin was the closest person he had done that with…and even then he hadn't been entirely truthful.

He sighed, momentarily forgetting about Gaskell's novel, and sat down to read his cousin's letter.

Right from the start, Martin was concerned. No, concern was the English understatement; Martin was frantic.

_Good God Tom, are you in trouble? What do mean your suffragette got hurt? What do you mean it's your fault? You don't write for over a month, and then send me such a letter, urging me to propose to Rachel when she and I have barely begun to court? What happened to you, what's wrong?_

Branson sighed, shaking his head as he finished reading the letter. The rest wasn't that different from the opening paragraph. While Martin did agree to his idea about seeing each other in late August, his cousin didn't bother to answer any of his other questions. Rather, he just spent the whole letter either berating Branson for his "mad ravings" in trying to convince Martin to marry Rachel, or demanding to know more about what was happening with him at Downton, convinced he was deep trouble.

_In some ways I am, I suppose,_ he thought to himself.

With a sad sigh, he crumpled the letter and tossed it on the floor. Martin wasn't going to take his advice; the poor lad was only two years younger than him, yet in many ways he was still a boy and still looked at the world the way a boy would. The Archduke's assassination and the impending doom that his death may bring to the rest of the world meant very little in Martin's mind. He didn't understand the desperation that Branson was seeing, but then Branson wondered if he were in Martin's shoes, and had just received a letter urging him to drop everything he was doing and marry the girl he were head over heels in love with, would he take the advice seriously and do it?

_Yes._

The answer shook Branson to the core. His mind hadn't hesitated at all, it just knew.

Was _that_ what he truly felt? Was he…truly, genuinely, in…in love…?

Branson leapt off his bed and began pacing the cottage, his hands running through his hair, a nervous sweat beading across his brow.

Attracted? He had always thought her pretty, right from the first time he had seen her. Yet he had always chastised novels, songs, and poems that spoke about "love at first sight"; how could you love someone based solely upon their looks? Lust at first sight made far more sense…although he could feel a sudden heat flaring across his face…and elsewhere, at that thought. So yes, of course, he found her attractive—a man would have to be blind not to! But it was more than just her face…her smile…her eyes…her figure…the shape of her legs revealed in her daring harem pants—

"Get a hold of yourself!" he hissed, trying to keep his imagination under control.

If he were honest with himself, his interest truly began after he had overheard Lady Grantham's comment about women's rights. He remembered smiling at the comment, and as soon as he returned the house, spent the rest of his afternoon going through his things until he found those pamphlets. He remembered grinning as he watched her surprise upon receiving them, and the ease he felt in sharing his own political thoughts and feelings. No…this was more than just simple attraction; there was a kinship right away…he _felt_ it, deeply.

But it was more than friendship as well. He remembered being worried sick when she and Gwen had gone to Malton. And of course after she had gotten hurt in Ripon—he had never known such fear. And what about the jealousy he had felt towards Mr. Matthew? Or that he was trying keep at bay every day when he thought of her attending some posh party, and dancing with some randy fop? What about the pleasure her letters brought to him, and the loneliness and emptiness he felt with her absence? How many times since she had left for London, had he wandered the garden paths only to stop under the willow tree and gaze up at her darkened window, praying that a light would come on and she would be home?

He had been struggling for a long time now, struggling with trying to understand his feelings for this extraordinary…and unattainable woman.

_Unattainable_. It was for that very reason that he had refused to admit his feelings were more than attraction or friendship…

"God help me," he muttered out loud. What was he doing? Why was he clinging to this impossible hope that anything more could happen? He was a working class Irishman, a chauffeur to an aristocratic English family, and she was the daughter of his employer! He was allowed to admire her as much as he wanted, but anything beyond that was strictly forbidden. She was to marry some wealthy lord, and settle into a grand house, while he was to continue serving and waiting on people of her class. That was the way the world worked; he could never simply be "Tom" to her, he would forever be a surname in her presence, and she would forever be a "Lady" in his.

He ran a hand over his eyes, his gaze catching the book that lay on his bed. North and South…just like the title, that was what he and Lady Sybil were…two complete opposites.

And yet…

_Stop it! There is no "and yet", _the rational side of his brain was screaming.

"But the world is changing…" he whispered to himself.

_Not fast enough for something like this!_

"She's different; she's a strong woman, capable and independent."

_She's just eighteen years old! She's young and naïve and at the end of the day, will do whatever her family and Society tells her do._

"No; I've seen her stand up to them, she will not be ruled like that. She's helping Gwen find a job, she writes to me—"

_You're just a servant in her eyes! Nothing more than a glorified pet, really!_

"I'm no one's pet! And she's never treated me like that. I'm her friend—and she has missed me, she's told me so!" As if prove his doubts wrong, he reached under his mattress and pulled out her letters, his eyes quickly scanning each one. He wasn't making this up, he saw her words, telling him over and over how much she wished he was there in London with her, how she longed to tell him about her adventures, how she longed for him to be there to see her achievements, how the next year she wanted him to join her so she could have those same experiences, but with him by her side. "She's told me so…" he murmured again, smiling as he reread her words multiple times.

Any further argument that his doubts wanted to raise were quickly hushed by Thomas, banging at his door once more, grumbling about some errands that Mrs. Hughes needed him to run. Branson was grateful for the distraction, and spent the rest of his day going about the housekeeper's tasks. The next day was also busy, and he worked long and hard in the garage, wanting each car to be polished and cleaned before his Lordship's return. Never had he found hard labor to be such a welcome diversion. But when night came, he would lie awake and stare up at the ceiling, trying to shut out the doubts that told him over and over that he was a fool. It wasn't just his own doubtful voice, but also the voice of his mother, his cousin, Mrs. Hughes, and many others. On the night before Mr. Carson's return, the voices seemed to be screaming, calling him a fool for allowing himself to get attached, for stepping beyond his boundaries, for imagining that anything he was feeling was more than…than…

He threw the blankets off and pulled on his trousers and boots, not bothering to button up a shirt, and took the familiar path around the Downton gardens. And once more, he found himself in the shadow of the willow, gazing up at her window.

"The day after tomorrow…" he whispered. He would drive to Downton station tomorrow to fetch Mr. Carson, and the day after he would return once more to bring her home. And that night, he would once again see a light coming from her window.

When the next day dawned, he was groggy, having had a very fitful night of sleep (or lack thereof to be honest), and was yawning throughout his entire breakfast, which earned several frowns from Mrs. Hughes. "Best get some strong coffee into your system, lad," she grumbled, pushing a cup in front of him. "I won't have you falling asleep at the wheel when you go down to the station."

"I wouldn't mind another day of peace and quiet," Thomas murmured, before flashing Daisy a flirtatious smile, but the kitchen maid only frowned and continued about her business. Mrs. Hughes gave Thomas a look of warning, and Thomas, realizing that he was without a like-minded comrade, rose to go outside and have a smoke by himself.

Branson rolled his eyes. Thank heaven William was returning tomorrow. "I wouldn't mind another day of peace and quiet, either," Gwen muttered from the chair next to his. "Although the person I'm referencing isn't Mr. Carson."

"Unlike Thomas, you do get your wish, Gwen," Anna murmured, sitting down across from them. "Miss O'Brien won't be returning until tomorrow, with her Ladyship."

Gwen sighed and finished her breakfast. "It was nice while it lasted."

The others grinned behind their coffee and tea cups, feeling very similar. "Bet you'll be happy though, when a certain person returns…" Gwen teased.

Branson nearly choked on his coffee, his eyes going wide at Gwen's words. Was she purposefully trying to—

But then he realized it wasn't him to whom she was speaking, but a blushing Anna, whose eyes were fixed on her own bowl of porridge. "Oh stuff it," Anna muttered under her breath, but she couldn't suppress the happy grin that threatened to reveal itself from behind her cup.

Gwen giggled and glanced over at Branson. "Are you alright, Tom? You look flushed?"

"Fine," he managed to croak, his throat burning slightly from nearly choking on the coffee. "Best be on my way, actually." He rose quickly, not wanting to linger long enough before Gwen could get a quip in. He returned to his cottage, put on his livery, and within a matter of minutes, was driving down to the station.

He would be taking this same route tomorrow, and his heart seemed to skip a beat at the thought. He glanced in the rearview mirror and immediately imagined her smiling face, laughing at something he had said, her eyes wide and bright with mischief and interest…

Another car honked at him, and Branson cursed himself, quickly veering back into his lane of traffic. "Love-sick fool…" he grumbled. Good God, there was that _word_ again!

Mr. Carson's train arrived on time, and Branson helped the station master load all the heavy cases and luggage into the back of the car, while Mr. Carson did a brief inventory with the conductor, to make sure every last trunk had made it off. "I trust everything has been in order while I've been away?" Mr. Carson asked, while Branson drove them back to the house.

"Yes, Mr. Carson," he dutifully answered. "I think you'll find that Mrs. Hughes has been running things very well and smoothly in your absence."

Was it Branson's imagination? Or did the butler turn a little red? "I…well, of course she can!" Mr. Carson sputtered slightly. "I never had any doubt that she couldn't. Why, did she say something?"

Branson's brow furrowed at the butler's question. "I beg your pardon? I don't understand—"

"Nothing," Mr. Carson quickly cut Branson off, turning his head and avoiding Branson's eyes in the mirror; his face, however, was still very red.

Branson bit the inside of his cheek to keep his smile at bay; Gwen would truly get a kick out of this story. "I hope all was well in London?"

Mr. Carson nodded his head. "Yes, yes, quite well, thank you."

Branson wondered if he dared test his luck…

He dared. "And Lady Sybil was a success?"

Mr. Carson's eyes returned to the mirror and immediately caught Branson's gaze. It was a stern look, but not one that held hostility or suspicion. "Naturally, of course." Branson knew that was the most he would get out of Mr. Carson, so he dared not test his luck any further. But he couldn't help but smile to the butler's response; indeed, Sybil being wonderful at anything, was very "natural".

They were soon back at the house, and there was a great hullabaloo while the trunks and cases were unloaded and several people, including Anna and Gwen, came outside with Mrs. Hughes to greet the Downton butler and welcome him back. Branson was quick to notice that Thomas was one of the missing.

"Mr. Branson?"

He was about to take the car back to the garage but paused at the deep boom of Mr. Carson's voice. "His Lordship will be arriving tomorrow on the two o'clock train."

Branson nodded his head, once again biting his cheek to keep the smile at bay. Two o'clock…how was he going to last till then?

"Didn't they take more with them to London?" Mrs. Hughes questioned, looking at all the trunks being taken into the house by various staff. "I could have sworn there were more…"

"Indeed," Mr. Carson answered. "But Lady Painswick invited one of his Lordship's daughters to stay a little longer in London; she felt it unfair that his Lordship was shortening their season."

Branson froze at the butler's words. One of his Lordship's daughters was staying in London? Who? Which one? But he felt the air leave his lungs when Mrs. Hughes voiced his fear…

"I suppose it would be Lady Sybil; it being her first season. No doubt Lady Painswick took pity on the girl, and wanted her to enjoy the city more."

Branson couldn't breathe.

After waiting so many weeks, wondering what was happening, yearning to see her, yearning to be with her, fighting over and over with himself about what it was he was feeling, about whether he should be feeling it or not…

To suddenly learn that after all this time…she may not be on that train tomorrow? It was unbearable…

"Mr. Branson, are you alright?"

Branson's head snapped up at Mr. Carson's question. "Yes, sorry Mr. Carson, I um…sorry." He couldn't think of a decent excuse for why he was still standing there, frozen with a look of utter heartbreak and horror on his face when he should have long since moved the car, so he didn't bother. He just climbed back into the driver's seat and quickly took the car back the garage, and chose to bolt himself in his cottage unless he was called for. And even then, he wasn't sure if he would answer the door.

_See? You don't mean anything to her; how could you? How could someone like _you_ begin to compare with such a world as hers?_

"No…" he began to argue, although he was finding it more difficult now than before. He moved quickly to the bed and found her letters. "She said she wants to return home…she _will_ return home."

_But to see _you?_ Don't be daft…you know better. _

How he wanted to argue, but his doubts were growing louder and louder, and once more he could hear those other voices, the ones that had invaded his dreams each night, begin to scream at him.

_Tom Branson, your father and I didn't raise you to be a pig-headed fool!_

_What's wrong with you Tom? At least Rachel and I are social equals, but you and your suffragette…have you gone completely mad?_

_Oh lad, didn't I tell you to take care and start thinking about yourself and your position? Weren't you listening to me that night in the kitchen? Haven't you learned anything since her accident? Since you nearly got sacked?_

His hands were balling into fists, the letters crumpling, the ink beginning to run from the cold sweat that coated his angry palms...

Was this worth it? Feeling like this? _Having feelings?_

He collapsed on the bed, his elbows resting atop his knees; his head hung forward, his eyes closed. "Get a hold of yourself," he growled. "He didn't say which daughter; it _may not_ be her." He silenced his doubts before they could taunt him further. "There's no point in fretting; you'll get your answer tomorrow…and if she's not there, it's not as if you'll never see her again, she _will_ return."

He glanced over to his side and caught sight of the novel he had been reading. With a deep breath, he settled further on the bed and opened the book, determined to finish as much of it as he could before she returned…which he dearly, dearly hoped would be tomorrow.

He fell asleep like that, the book lying open on his chest. In the story there had been a scene where Margaret and Thornton saw each other at a train station. He dreamed that he was at a train station, just disembarking, and there…across the way stood Lady Sybil…her smile bright, her eyes shimmering, and her mouth opening, murmuring his name in happy relief, "Tom…"

"Tom!"

Branson groaned as he was awoken by the sound of his name being called through the cottage door.

"Tom! Wake up! Are you in there? Tom!"

He blinked, surprised by how bright it was. What time was it?

"Tom?" It was Gwen's voice, and she was sounding more and more agitated.

"Here," he groaned, rising from the bed and quickly moving to the door to open it. He still wore his clothes from the previous day.

"Where have you been?" Gwen asked, her eyes taking his disheveled appearance. "Are you sick? You disappeared yesterday afternoon and no one has seen you since!"

"_Yesterday_ afternoon?" He couldn't believe it; had a day truly passed?

Gwen nodded her head. "You didn't come to dinner last night…and then when you didn't come to breakfast this morning, I started to worry!"

Branson felt a headache coming on. "What…what time is it?" he managed to ask, while rubbing his throbbing temples.

"That's just it!" Gwen all but hissed. "It's nearly noon! And you have to be down at the station before two!"

Nearly noon? It couldn't be! The last thing he remembered was settling on his bed in the late afternoon, picking up North and South and proceeding to read it…and then at some point…drifting off to sleep with the book still in his hands. How much time had passed while he had been reading? He had gotten lost in the story, amazed at how the novel had taken him; he couldn't recall the last time a novel had been able to do that.

"Best change your clothes and pop in the kitchen before Mr. Carson or Mrs. Hughes comes looking for you," Gwen advised. She nibbled her bottom lip and studied him briefly. "Are you _sure_ you're alright Tom?"

He nodded his head and smiled at her. "I am thank you. Sorry, I…I guess I wasn't very well yesterday, but I do feel better now, truly."

Gwen wasn't completely convinced by his answer, but she gave a small smile before turning and retreating back to the house. He took a brief look at himself in a mirror, and immediately stripped out of his wrinkled shirt and vest, before donning on a fresh set and combing his hair. He did as Gwen advised, made a quick appearance in the kitchen, had some toast, and explained to both the agitated housekeeper and butler that he didn't feel well last night, but was on the mend today. They nodded their heads in approval, but it was quite clear that they were more focused on having everything in order before his Lordship and family arrived.

A short time later, he took a deep breath as he got behind the wheel of the Renault and began his drive to the station. Would she be there? There was a chance that she wouldn't be, and if that were true, he had to get a grip on his emotions so he wouldn't break with disappointment. But at the same time, if she were, he had to get a grip on his emotions so he wouldn't make a fool of himself by rushing forward and sweeping her up in his arms and spinning her around in sheer joy, even though every fiber in his body ached to do so.

He had arrived at the station a good thirty minutes before the train was meant to arrive, but they felt like the longest thirty minutes of his life. He tried not to pace; after all, standing here in his livery with the Grantham coat of arms glistening on each gold button, everyone there knew to whom he served and represented. He stood by the car, and clasped his arms tightly around his back, and silently recited his favorite political speeches over and over in his head, doing whatever he could to keep himself from going mad with anticipation.

He thought about the book, about how much he was enjoying it. He was nearly done, and a part of him had wished he thought to bring it with him to read while waiting. He knew Sybil loved it, he remembered her recommending it to him once—of course she had failed to tell him it was a romance. Well, that wasn't entirely fair; it was many, many things, and the angle to which she had presented it to him was a study on worker's rights and unions during the Industrial Revolution. But he quickly realized while reading the book that there was a love story brewing between the harsh factory owner and the vicar's progressive-minded daughter. They were complete opposites, coming from entirely different worlds—and yet it could not be denied the deep attraction they shared…that was beginning to bloom into something far deeper…

A train whistle shook Branson from his thoughts, and he felt his heart skip and his breathing quicken as he stared at the giant locomotive, rolling into the Downton station.

He was shaking. His palms were sweaty, his throat was dry, his breathing erratic—

The train stopped. Several conductors stepped down, announcing in loud voices the train's destination. The doors opened…

His eyes scanned the crowd of people that exited the train. They were men and women dressed in fine traveling clothes; elegant suits and large-feathered hats. He cursed those hats for concealing the faces of the women who wore them, and the people who stood behind them. Where was she? He was sure he would know her the second he saw her, even if it were just her shoulder, he knew he would be able to recognize her anywhere…

Suddenly a familiar face appeared.

Lady Edith.

Branson swallowed again, his heart beating even faster than before. She had come home…but had Sybil?

Following directly behind Lady Edith was her mother, Lady Grantham. Her eyes were bright and she was smiling wide at something someone nearby had said. Was it Sybil? Appearing just next to Lady Grantham was O'Brien, followed by Bates. Branson was happy to see the valet, but he had no time to dwell on that matter—_where was she?_

He heard the Earl's laugh before he saw his Lordship's face. One of those blasted hats was blocking his view.

"Ah! There he is!" his Lordship called out, pointing directly at Branson. Branson quickly stood to attention, his chin lifting, his shoulders straight, but his eyes continuing their frantic search. Where was the other daughter? Was it Lady Mary or Sybil? Who had stayed behind and who had returned? Blast it, he couldn't see!

"Good to see you Branson!" Lord Grantham greeted, sounding most jovial. Clearly he had put the memory of the Ripon incident behind him.

"Welcome home, your Lordship," he politely replied, giving his Lordship a smile, but still trying to scan the thinning crowd.

Lord Grantham smiled and gripped Branson's shoulder, giving it a friendly and welcoming squeeze, before proceeding to help his wife and daughter into the car. Bates and O'Brien would be traveling separately.

"I hope you have been well in our absence?" his Lordship asked, still smiling and standing in front of Branson, blocking his view of the station. If Branson didn't know any better, he may have thought his Lordship was doing it on purpose.

"Yes, milord," he obediently replied. "And I trust you had a decent time in London?"

"Oh yes, quite so," he smiled. "Shame we had to leave early, but I'm sure you can understand why."

Branson could only nod his head. Lord help him, he was going to go mad if he didn't know soon!

"Where is your mother?" Lady Grantham asked from the car. Branson had forgotten all about the Dowager Countess.

Lord Grantham's brow furrowed, and he turned his head to look. "Excellent question; and where has your sister got to, Edith?"

"_Which sister?"_ he wanted to scream. But he didn't. Somehow, by some miracle, he was able to keep his sanity, at least for a moment longer.

"They were the last to get off," Lady Edith more or less grumbled. Was it Branson's imagination? Or was the middle Crawley girl always in a perpetual bad mood?

"Oh, there they are," Lord Grantham lifted his arm, once again blocking Branson's vision. "Mama, we're over here!"

He couldn't stand still any longer, he had to see. Branson moved around his Lordship, his eyes flashing as he followed the direction to which Lord Grantham was waving. He quickly made out the Dowager Countess, who was guilty of wearing one of those atrocious feathered monstrosities, and just his luck, was currently blocking the face of the woman she was speaking to. But at the sound of his Lordship's call, she turned her head, allowing the sun to hit the face of her companion…

Sybil.

Branson felt the weight of the world suddenly lift.

_She's back…she's come home!_

In his mind, he was rushing forward, not caring for who stood around them, not caring for who saw. He was flinging his hat off, and before she could say a word, sweeping her up, crushing her against him, holding her so tight for fear that she would dissolve. She would gasp and say his name over and over, her hands gripping his shoulders, partially out of joy for seeing him, partially out of bewilderment for his sudden burst of emotion, but she would laugh and cling to him while he swung her around in endless circles, and only when she cried out for fear of dizziness, would he stop…set her down on her feet, his arms still encircled around her voluptuous frame, and before another word could pass her lips, he would dip his head, and—

"Ah, good to see you Branson!" the Dowager Countess called out, holding what looked like a large hat box out for him to take.

In some ways, he was most thankful for Lady Grantham's interruption, for who knows what he may have done if she hadn't quickly brought him back to earth. He didn't hesitate, he moved quickly to take the hat box from her hands…but not before he caught a glimpse of Sybil's face.

She smiled at him.

Nothing fancy, she didn't murmur his name, or try to reach out and touch his arm…she simply smiled at him.

But it was more beautiful than any summer rose, and far warmer than the July sun that reigned down upon them.

…And that was the moment he knew, without any further doubt, that yes…he was in love with Sybil Crawley.

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><p><em>Please review! Thank you for reading!<em>


	33. Home Sweet Home

_THANK YOU SO MUCH for the wonderful comments and feedback! They are *very* much appreciated._

_Originally this was going to be a diary entry, but I kept thinking about a comment someone had made, about what was going on through Sybil's head when Branson arrived at the train station, and so I decided to explore Sybil's homecoming through her perspective. I hope you like it! _

_Also, I *am* planning on writing a companion piece in the near future; it will not be right away, and I won't start it until after I get a little of "series two" down in this story, but it will happen! Ok, once again, enough babbling...enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Three<strong>

"What on earth are you reading?"

Sybil practically jumped at the sudden sound of Edith's voice. She slammed the book closed and looked up with slightly wild eyes at her sister, who had flopped down in the seat across from her own. "Nothing!" she all too quickly lied, wincing inwardly at how "unconvincing" she sounded.

Edith, however, just made a face at Sybil's reaction. "Be that way," she muttered, not pressing the matter further, and proceeding to look out the train window, a pout never leaving her lips.

Why was her sister so…_angry_ all the time? Sybil couldn't help but frown as she watched her sister's grumpy profile. It didn't make any sense. Was she upset because Aunt Rosamond asked Mary to stay instead of her? Sybil thought that perhaps with her two older sisters separated, some peace may finally settle over the house. Really, their bickering…

She recalled the argument that had taken place the morning after Mary received the invitation. "Why has _she_ been asked to stay?" Edith all but wailed.

Mary couldn't help but smirk in triumph. "I suppose Aunt Rosamond prefers my company over others."

Edith lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. Sybil instantly recognized that look; Mary may have thought she had the upper hand when it came to throwing insults, but Sybil had long since learned that Edith could rise up with a cutting remark that would leave her opponent stunned.

"I wonder, Mary, how Matthew will feel…when the rest of us return to Downton and he learns that you chose to _stay_ in London? I'm sure he's confident in your affections for him, after all, you only delayed in giving him an answer once—oh, I beg your pardon, this would be _twice_ now, wouldn't it?"

Sybil groaned, knowing that they would be screeching at each other any second. And sure enough, after Mary got over the initial shock of Edith's cutting statement…

She rose then and retreated to her room, leaving the two harpies that were once her sisters to their own squabble. Let Granny or her parents sort them out; she was tired of playing referee.

Thank heaven Aunt Rosamond hadn't asked her! When her aunt had learned the previous day that they were to be leaving London soon, she felt it was her "duty" (that was exactly how she had put it) that she take one of her nieces under her wing, for at least another week or two. Sybil dreaded the thought; another week, possibly more, _here?_ She had enjoyed London much more than she had ever thought possible, but…she longed for home. She longed for the country, for her friends, for…

Her cheeks glowed red.

To say she was relieved to learn that Aunt Rosamond wanted Mary's company was an understatement. Her grandmother had opened her mouth to protest, and Sybil was frozen with a sudden panic that a suggestion would be made that _she_ stay, instead! But her aunt was very much like her grandmother…and was determined to have her way. She insisted it be Mary, since Mary hadn't received that many invitations during the Season. Sybil wondered if Aunt Rosamond was aware of the slight she had just delivered? But Mary put on a smile (although a somewhat strained one to be honest) and said she would be delighted. Edith, like Mary, hadn't received as many invitations either—but apparently her aunt hadn't noticed.

Now, several days later, they were on the train, taking them back to Downton, back to home. And it couldn't go fast enough.

That very morning, exactly an hour before they were to depart, Lucy came running into to Sybil's room, holding a small envelope. "This arrived for you, milady! What luck that it came just before you left!"

Sybil looked at the envelope and felt her heart soar. "Yes indeed," she whispered, before quickly taking it from Lucy's hands.

The housemaid smiled. "She must be a dear friend. Beggin' your pardon, but I only say that based on the number of letters I've seen you send, and receive for that matter."

Sybil blushed deeply, and bit her bottom lip. Lucy didn't know the half of it. "Yes," she managed to say, trying her hardest to conceal a knowing smile. "Yes…a very dear friend."

She wanted to read the letter desperately, but with everyone dashing around, trying to get ready, she tucked it into her purse and only hoped there would be a quiet moment on the train when she could pull it out. She was in the midst of that moment, when Edith had chosen to sit across from her.

The letter was hidden between the pages of her book; John Stuart Mill's The Subjection of Women. It was one Branson had recommended to her once on their many journeys. It was not a book that could be found in her father's library, nor at any shop in Ripon, for that matter. But there was a shop on Bond Street where she had found it (in between various dress fittings). Of course, ever since the Count, Sybil had to be careful; Papa was keeping an extra close watch on whatever she was reading. She couldn't help but grin slightly; it was one thing to be caught reading Socialist propaganda…and quite another to be caught reading a letter from a man.

_Well, he's not just _any_ man,_ she thought. And _that_ would certainly win her disapproval from her father.

Sybil nibbled her lip as she glanced over at Edith; her sister seemed to be distracted by the passing scenery, so she carefully opened her book once more, and tried to continue reading Branson's letter where she had left off.

_I wish I was there too, milady, or that you were here. I confess I thought the same thing when I heard the news; I kept waiting to hear your feet running across the gravel down to the garage where I was working, and had to keep reminding myself that you weren't there, sadly. _

Sybil sighed softly to herself. How she missed him! How she missed the sound of his voice, the gentle lilt in his accent, the sweet mix of baritone and tenor. How she missed going to him whenever something popped in her head! And after all the news about the Archduke, how she longed to sit for many, many hours, and voice her fears and worries about what this could all mean. No one in her family wanted to discuss the matter; it was either deemed "unladylike" or "far too complicated" for such a "delicate creature" as she. Branson would never do that to her, and she was filled with such warmth at the thought. Was there a truer friend?

_But we will talk more about it later, when you do return, as well as about all the adventures you've had in London, including your most recent!_

She couldn't help but grin at his words. Indeed, there was so much to tell! She couldn't wait to describe everything to him, from the British Museum to the speaker in the park! The very thought of sitting with him and just talking to him filled her with more excitement than attending any ball, party, or seeing the Queen, all rolled into one!

_You are quite right, I did give you permission to boast and brag, so yes, please…when you return, feel free to…"seize me"._

"Sybil?"

The book flew shut again as Sybil lifted her eyes to meet her sister's.

"Are you alright?"

"Y-y-yes?" Sybil stammered, and quickly swallowed the nervous lump that appeared to be stuck in her throat. "Yes, why do you ask?"

Edith narrowed her eyes. "You're rather…pink."

"Pink?" she practically squeaked the word.

"Yes…and you're growing pinker by the second."

She was surprised she hadn't gone red!

_Please…when you return, feel free to…"seize me"._

She inwardly cursed herself for saying those words in her last letter. Leave it to Branson, "the king of cheek" to find a way to tease her with her own words. It was his gift, and she wanted nothing more than to throttle him for it.

But at the same time, seeing those very words, knowing he had written them, imagining him reading her letter, and then revealing that roguish grin of his, before sitting at some table…hunched over the paper…the muscles in his back and shoulders rippling slightly…his long, strong fingers gripping the pen…

Good God, what was wrong with her?

"Sybil? Are you sure you're alright?" Edith looked genuinely concerned now. "Are you coming down with something? You look feverish…"

"I um…" she quickly stood, although somewhat wobbly…surely that was due to the train's movements and not the sudden weakness in her knees. "I think I just need some…some air," she mumbled, before moving out of her seat and walking down the aisle, away from her family, towards a vestibule. She hadn't been entirely lying; she really did need some air—or anything cool for that matter.

_Please…when you return, feel free to…"seize me"._

Images of his broad, muscular shoulders…hunched over a writing desk…completely unaware of her creeping up behind him…and then, just as he was lifting his head at the sound of her approaching footsteps, she would leap forward, and wrap her arms around those shoulders, before shouting her surprise—

One hand reached out and braced itself against the vestibule wall. Even though a tiny window had been open to provide some rushing cool air, it wasn't enough to cool the heat that colored her cheeks.

"It's nothing but a crush…nothing more than a silly, adolescent crush…" she repeated over and over to herself.

Of course, she technically wasn't an adolescent anymore. And if it were nothing more than a crush, why did it affect her so?

She quickly shook her head, forcing _that_ thought out right away.

Did she dare attempt to read the rest of his letter? "Oh you're being silly!" she chastised herself. "He's just doing what he always does…trying to get under your skin!" It was something he was very good at, she begrudgingly thought. "How he would laugh at me now, if he could see me…"

With a determined nod, she opened her book and removed the letter once more and quickly continued reading, being very careful not to look at _that_ particular line any longer.

_No need to chastise yourself for feeling giddy, and yes, I think that's a splendid idea: socialists and suffragettes—why with a merry band of such rebels, we should surely be able to bring some positive changes to this country!_

She smiled at his words, giggling at the image they created. _Amazing_, she thought. _He can tease me to the point where I want to do nothing more than…than…than take my fist to his smug smile…and then he can go and say something like that…and I'm ready to forgive him and laugh and be merry_. She continued reading, giggling at his questions in regards to her ball (he certainly seemed fixated on that, didn't he?) Her hand flew to her mouth to keep her laughter at bay when he proceeded to tell her that he could dance, and that he had won a contest when he was fifteen years old. She wondered what he looked like at that age; she couldn't imagine Branson as a gawky boy. Was he once thin and frail? No…surely he was always sturdy and broad…and muscular…

_STOP IT!_

She moved on, captured by his paragraph on reading North and South. _Oh I hope he likes it_, she thought to herself. She knew he didn't read many novels, but she was sure it would be one he would enjoy. She was sixteen when she first read it, wanting to try another Gaskell novel after reading Wives and Daughters. At the time, she was taken more by the love story between Margaret and Thornton, but after reading a few political articles in her father's discarded papers…and then after a few conversations with Branson…she remembered rereading it, and discovering a deeper story, involving issues of worker's rights and social justice. She flew to Branson the afternoon she had finished it, wanting to thrust it into his hands and demand that he drop what he was doing and read it right away, wanting to talk more and more about those issues, but sadly discovered upon arriving at the garage…that he was off, running some errand. Perhaps now they could have that talk she had longed for, for so long?

She blushed when he told her that she reminded him of Margaret's character. It was a kind compliment, but one she was completely unworthy of. Margaret was far too good, and much braver than she could ever be. Still…she wondered what it was about her that caused him make such a connection? The thought did make her heart swell…

_But are you surprised if I tell you that my favorite character is Nicholas Higgins? I know, who would think that a socialist like me would like the leader of the factory union? _

Of course he would be; that was the Branson she knew and loved—

The book containing Branson's letter suddenly fell from her hands, as if it were a hot coal.

What was it that she had just thought?

"It's just an expression…" she whispered. "That's all, just a simple expression."

Then why was her heart thudding like the locomotive that carried them northward? Why was her breathing coming in quick and shallow? Why did she drop her book as if something had pricked her fingers?

…Why was this bothering her at all?

"Everything alright Miss?"

Sybil looked up, surprised to see a train conductor enter the sanctuary of her vestibule. She took a deep breath and nodded her head, then quickly bent down to retrieve her book—

It happened so quickly, she didn't have time to react until it was too late…

Just as she had picked up the book, a strong breeze swept in from the small vestibule window, and snatched her letter right out of her hands, taking it far, far away.

"NO!" she gasped, but it had already disappeared beyond the horizon before her fingers even touched the window.

"Oh dear," the conductor murmured, realizing what had just happened. "I'm so sorry, Miss; I hope it wasn't anything important?"

Sybil stared at the window that had snatched away her letter. She felt as if a great weight had fallen upon her chest. It was her fault, of course; if she hadn't dropped the book, if she hadn't been so foolish, allowing her heart to think…to think…

"Miss?"

"I…sorry," she murmured, before giving the conductor a quick, apologetic smile, and retreating back to her seat. Her eyes were stinging, and the weight on her chest only felt heavier with each step.

Edith glanced up, taking notice of her return. "Where did you go?"

"Nowhere," Sybil mumbled, before sitting down and quickly turning her attention out the window.

"Are you alright? You look—"

"Oh Edith, enough, please!" she snapped, not meaning to sound so harsh, but she was tired of being asked that same question, over and over. Edith was stunned, her eyes wide and her mouth falling open in shock. But she quickly closed it, before getting up and moving away, a mixture of hurt and annoyance painted across her face.

Sybil groaned and leaned her forehead against the glass. She would have to apologize later, and no doubt her sister would give her the silent treatment as revenge.

The truth was, she didn't know the answer to Edith's question; was she alright? She was certainly upset for losing Branson's letter. But this was more than that; what were these thoughts that kept filling her head, both at night and in her daydreams? What were these strange feelings that kept threatening all sorts of different outbursts from her? Why the feverish blushing? Why the embarrassed stutters? Why the constant questioning? Oh God, help her…she just wanted to go home, that was all! She just wanted things to return to normal.

But what was normal? And truly…if she were completely honest with herself…did she want to go back to _that?_

She must have drifted off to the sleep, because the next thing she knew, a hand was gently shaking her shoulder. "Sybil, darling, we're home!"

Sybil looked up at her mother's smiling face, her own clouded in a sleepy haze. Earlier the train couldn't return fast enough…now they were here?

She straightened up, her back and shoulders stiff from the train seat, her neck aching slightly from leaning against the glass. She moved her hand to touch her head, and realized her bonnet was askew and her hair was beginning to tumble loose from its pins. Oh Lord, what a sight she must be!

"Best fetch your grandmother," her mother murmured. "I believe she fell asleep too. But she will be far kinder to you if you wake her, than to me if I dare to." She turned then to join Edith and her father who were preparing to disembark the train.

She forgot all about Granny. She forgot all about her tumbling hair and crooked hat, at least for the moment. Instead, she flew across the aisle and gripped the window sill, her eyes flying this way and that, trying to see the car, trying to see _him_.

"Damn those hats!" she cursed, her eyes trying to peer beyond the feathered plumes of the ladies who had already exited the train, but who were blocking her view of the station. She couldn't see him; she couldn't see anything, really!

"Well, it's nice to be remembered," a haughty voice grumbled just over her shoulder. Sybil turned quickly to see her grandmother standing a few inches away, looking very irritated that no one had woken her to let her know they were back. "I suppose no one could be bothered? After all, I'm just an old woman—never mind that I was the one who was able to get us an invitation into Lady Southerton's ball at the last minute."

Sybil was careful not to roll her eyes in front of her grandmother. "Granny, I'm sorry, I was just coming to—"

"Oh never mind, dear, life is too short to hold grudges; hence why I rarely engage in them," she didn't say another word, simply pulled on her gloves and began moving towards the exit. "Come along, Sybil!"

She looked one last time out the train window, and with a frustrated sigh, turned to follow her grandmother, quickly trying to get her hair under control and fix her hat.

He had to be out there, surely. Unless he was ill…but if he were, who would come and fetch them? Would Carson be there, then? No, he would want to stay and be ready at the house to receive them. Surely Branson was there…but why hadn't she seen him? Blast these hats! Even her own grandmother was wearing one, and she insisted on taking Sybil's arm, to which Sybil obliged, but it did mean that her view was blocked by the infernal feathers whenever her grandmother moved her head.

"Mama, we're over here!"

Both Sybil and her grandmother lifted their heads in the direction of her father's voice. The sun, which had been blocked by Lady Grantham's hat, suddenly hit Sybil square in the face, causing her to squint and be momentarily blinded by its bright rays. All she could make out was a figure…moving swiftly towards them…was it her father? No…he wasn't as tall as Lord Grantham...and he was leaner around the middle, but broader across the shoulders…

Was it…was it…?

"Ah, good to see you Branson!"

If her arm had not been laced with that of her grandmother's, Sybil's knees may have buckled beneath her.

_It's him…he's here! _

A smile immediately began spreading across her face as the two of them locked eyes. She felt her insides melt as he returned her smile, his own so warm and radiant, and such a welcome reminder that she was home. How she wanted to speak to him, to call out his name and tell him how much she had missed him. How she wanted to reach out and touch his arm, his hand…and a blush immediately crept up her neck and began spreading across her face as she imagined herself "seizing him" as he had teased, throwing herself into his arms and hugging him tightly to her.

Thank heaven her grandmother had all but thrust the hat box into his hands, bringing everything back into focus; the last thing he needed was for her to cause a scene.

_Remember…just because Papa is smiling and seems to have let bygones be bygones, doesn't mean he's completely forgotten everything that's happened._ Indeed, she had a feeling her father would be watching them both very closely.

Branson bowed to Lady Grantham and took the hat box, but not before giving Sybil a quick grin, that roguish grin he was so good at, before turning back to the car. During the entire ride she watched him, her eyes focused on the back of his head. Every so often she thought she would be able to catch his gaze in the mirror, but sadly that didn't happen. Her father was sitting directly across from her, so she had to be careful in what she revealed.

They first stopped at the Dowager House, and parted company with her grandmother who announced she would be not be visiting for dinner, as she was too exhausted after the journey from London to even consider leaving the house. Sybil did notice her mother give a brief sigh of relief. Within a matter of minutes, they were traveling up the familiar gravel drive to Downton. Sybil smiled at the sight of the grand house, glad to finally be home.

Thomas and William were standing by the front door, ready to greet the returning family. She was glad to see William there, but felt her heart swell with sadness at the pained, but stoic expression, the young footman wore.

Branson was the first to exit the car, and then moved around to open the door. Sybil looked down at her shoes, as if examining something on them; she wanted to be the last to leave the car. "May I be of service milord?" Her head whipped around to see Thomas approach the opposite side of the car, and open the other door in front of her and Lord Grantham.

"Ah! Thank you Thomas," her father replied, stepping down from the car. Both Edith and her mother were taking a little longer leaving the car, due to the trains on their traveling coats. She nibbled her lip, watching anxiously as her mother finally made it down, and now waiting for Edith to descend, while her father was already out. "Come, Sybil," he smiled, turning and offering his hand to help her.

She looked at her father, who was patiently waiting for her to take his hand and step down. No, no, no, even if it were only to be a brief moment with Branson, she wanted all of that moment! But what could she say? What could she do without raising any eyebrows?

"Robert?"

Sybil felt her a long, shaky breath escape her lungs as her father turned away from the car towards her mother, who was beckoning him to join her side.

"I'll help you, milady—" Thomas began to offer, but Branson was there in an instant, all but shoving himself in front of the footman.

"No need, Thomas, I'll help her down."

Sybil tried very hard not to laugh, let alone smile at the dumbfounded, and annoyed look, the first footman was giving the chauffeur. "Thank you Branson," she softly murmured, her hand taking his for balance, as she carefully…and if truth be told, a little more slowly than usual, descended from the car.

Was it her imagination? Or did his fingers grip hers just a little tighter? It didn't hurt…but there was some pressure there that she hadn't felt before.

_You haven't seen him in over a month; nothing has changed, you silly girl. _

She couldn't linger, as much as she wanted to. She couldn't begin to tell him everything that she wanted to tell him. But as she stepped down from the car, she did briefly look up into his eyes, and caught their blue-green gaze. They were dancing, with laughter, with mischief, and something else too…but she wasn't entirely sure what. Still…it managed to bring a blush to her cheeks.

"Sybil?"

She didn't dare squeeze his hand, even though she wanted to. She tore her eyes away from his and looked to her parents, who were patiently waiting for her. She glanced back at Branson one last time, and only prayed that he could read her thoughts, that she was so glad to see him again, and how happy she was to finally be home.

As for the rest of the afternoon, it went by in a blur.

Gwen was waiting for her in her room, and as soon as she was able, Sybil rushed forward and threw her arms around her friend. "Oh it's good to have you back, milady!" Gwen giggled. "You must tell me all about London, especially the dances you attended!"

Sybil grinned and obliged, even though the balls hadn't been her favorite thing about the trip. Still, it was the least she could do, after everything Gwen had done for her in passing her letters onto Branson and vice versa. Anna came by too, and Sybil once more launched into rich detail, telling her other friend about the lavish parties and the gowns she saw. Both maids grinned and giggled alongside her, and only left when the dressing gong sounded.

Dinner crawled by at a snail's pace, unfortunately. Cousins Matthew and Isobel joined them, and her mother dominated a bulk of the conversation, filling in all the missing gaps about their time in London that their cousins were unaware of. Isobel politely smiled, and every so often added a word here and there. Matthew, however, looked rather miserable. Sybil felt for her cousin, knowing that the reason was because Mary had stayed behind in London. What her sister was thinking? Mary had told her that she would give her answer to Matthew when he came to London, and he specifically came to attend her coming out ball. She was so sure an announcement would be made that night, but instead she learned that her sister would give Matthew an answer _after_ returning from London.

Now she better understood Edith's cutting remark.

Matthew tried to rally for her father's sake, who perhaps was the most grateful to be back at Downton, besides herself. The two men talked for nearly an hour after dinner, leaving the ladies to entertain themselves in the drawing room. However, once her father and Matthew emerged, Matthew offered his apologies, saying he was rather tired and felt he couldn't stay. No one argued; after all, it had been a long day for all of them. They said their goodnights, and as soon as their cousins left, Sybil bid goodnight to her family, before racing up the stairs to her room.

She waited. An hour passed. Then two. She heard her sister's door shut down the corridor. Her parents wouldn't stay up too much longer; her mother looked exhausted. She paced back and forth, listening as the maids and footmen moved about, snuffing candles and extinguishing lamps. Then…only when she was absolutely certain there was no one in the corridor…did she open her door and peer out.

It was dark. Perfect!

With careful footsteps, Sybil crept down the hall, clutching a bundle to her breast. She took the servant's staircase, being very careful that there was no one on it before descending. The last person she wanted to run into was her mother's "tattle-tale" lady's maid. Once she came to the ground floor, she peered around the servant's hall. Mrs. Patmore was sitting at a table, writing a shopping list. She overheard Carson and Mrs. Hughes talking in the butler's pantry. Other than that, there were no signs of any other servants. She made a dash towards one of the doors, careful to make as little noise as possible, before finally slipping out. Without another look back, she quickly headed towards the garage, thanking God that a light was still burning inside.

"Branson?" she hissed as she approached the door. She thought he would be working on a car, but instead he was sitting on the workbench, his face buried in a book.

He looked up and immediately leapt to his feet. "Milady! What are you doing here?" he gasped, his face flushing.

Sybil couldn't help but giggle. "I wanted to speak to you," she explained. "I've been dying to talk to you ever since we got back!" She eyed the book, a pleased smile spreading across her face; it was North and South.

Even though he was still getting over his initial shock, he smiled at her and chuckled softly. "I confess I was hoping you would stop by…" he sheepishly admitted. "That's why I waited up in the garage, just in case…and I do want to hear everything, truly, but it must be very late, milady, and I don't want you to get into any trouble."

Sybil's smile faded slightly. She didn't bother to look at her mantle clock when she left, but it had to be close to midnight, if not after. "I suppose," she sighed, feeling disappointed. "Even if I wanted to, I don't think I could condense my stories into a few minutes."

Branson gave her a sympathetic smile, which helped lift her spirits. "And I want to hear every detail, truly…so let's start afresh tomorrow. I'm sure your family will still be recovering from the journey, so we should have some time to ourselves."

A small smile curled on her lips at his words. She liked that idea very much. Although she did quickly look down at her feet when he murmured the words "time to ourselves"; she didn't want to reveal the fevered blush that colored her cheeks…or the scandalous images that played across her mind's eye. Really! What was _wrong_ with her? Proper ladies didn't think such things!

Did they?

"Milady?"

Sybil lifted her head, her smile a little too forced, but it was the only thing she could think of to appear "normal", and not cause him to ask further questions. "I like that idea, very much. And I look forward to it," she quickly said, hoping her voice didn't sound unusual.

If he did think that, he didn't reveal it. "As do I," he murmured…and then a smug smile began to spread. "And I'll be prepared…for when you _seize me_, of course."

"OH!" Sybil gasped, her eyes wide and her face paling before glowing a bright shade of red.

He laughed as she threw a fist at him, but all too quickly ducked out of the way. "I must say, your aim is improving, milady."

She narrowed her eyes at him, and then stuck her tongue out, which only caused him to laugh harder. "And Society _still_ accepted you, after that cheeky display?" he clucked his tongue at her, shaking his head in mock disgust.

She lifted her chin and then arched an eyebrow most haughtily. "Well, if you recall, _my_ society consists of housemaids and chauffeurs…so my behavior is perfectly acceptable." She emphasized this point by sticking her tongue out once more.

Branson laughed heartily, and soon Sybil was joining him. "We best keep it down," he managed to get out between chuckles. "The last thing we need is Mr. Carson sending Thomas out here to investigate."

Sybil sighed and nodded her head. "I'll go now, before that happens. But before I do…" she took a deep breath and told her blushing cheeks to behave, as she handed him the wrapped paper parcel she had been hugging to her chest this whole time.

Branson stared at the package, looking a little confused. "Oh go on, take it!" she insisted, her eyes shining brightly with enthusiasm. He obeyed and took the package, and at her urging, slowly tore the paper away…to reveal a small, leather-bound book. "Open it!" she urged, grinning all the while. The book contained…nothing. Or rather, every sheet of paper was completely blank.

His brow was furrowed in confusion. "I don't understand—"

"It's a journal," she explained, her smile never diminishing for a second. "I thought, you could use it…for writing down your opinions and perspectives…you know, on politics and such." She was watching his face, waiting to see his reaction. Did he like it? She had hoped he would, but she couldn't tell what he was thinking.

He looked up at her, his face unreadable. "Milady…I…" he paused, and she bit her lip. Oh dear.

"I know it's nothing impressive…and maybe you already have something like this…but…well, you said so yourself you won't always be a chauffeur, and I really do think you should go into politics someday, and if you haven't already, I really think you should write down your thoughts—"

"Thank you."

Sybil's mouth quickly shut. Good gracious, her babbling! But she could see the genuine gratitude in his eyes, and her heart warmed at the sight. "So you're…pleased?"

He nodded his head, looking down at the journal, before lifting it again and meeting her gaze. No one could deny the sincere thanks reflected in his eyes. "I don't think I've been given a finer gift, truly."

A relieved sigh managed to escape her throat. "Oh I am glad. Oh! And you'll never guess where I got it!"

He lifted an eyebrow at her riddle. "Not some posh place on Oxford or Bond Street?" he joked.

"Heavens no," she made a face, before giggling. "Portobello Road, of course," she stated quite proudly.

Branson's eyes went wide at her revelation. "You made it to Portobello Road?"

"I did!" she grinned. "But that is a story you will have to wait and hear tomorrow, I'm afraid."

It was his turn to make a face, but he also broke into a grin. "As if I weren't eager to hear what you had to say before, my interest has definitely risen!"

Sybil laughed, but then her face fell once more at a disappointing memory. "I never managed to try those lovely chips you described."

His smile was tender, and it made her heart sigh. "There's always next season, milady."

"Yes," she agreed. "And you will be coming with me, I promise you that!"

He grinned back at her, before smiling down at the journal in his hands. "Thank you again, milady. Truly, I…I don't know what to say…you shouldn't have—"

"Nonsense," she shushed. "There will be no such talk, you understand?" she tried her best to look stern, but it didn't help that a laugh threatened to burst forth, especially when Branson mock saluted her. "I better go," she whispered, glancing out the door towards the house. The lights from the kitchens were out, and she knew she shouldn't delay much longer.

"Goodnight, milady," he murmured, moving to hold the door open for her. "It's good to have you back."

"It's good to be back, Branson," she smiled. A sudden urge took over then, and in her mind's eye, she was leaning up on her toes, and brushing her lips against his cheek, before turning and running into the house.

She shook her head, forcing both the urge and the image, out.

"Goodnight," she whispered, moving quickly before her emotions got the better of her and she gave in to that urge.

But she had only gone a few feet when she heard Branson hissing after her. "Milady!" she turned to face him, the light from the garage illuminating his outline. "I um…I just…you never told me, probably because you never had the opportunity, but…I don't suppose any…_special announcements_ were made while you were in London?"

"Special announcements?" she asked, a little confused by his question.

"You know…" She didn't really, but she could tell he was struggling with putting his question into words. "Announcements…that…that are made about…the future of two people…?"

"Oh!" Sybil finally realized what he was asking. "No, nothing like that…at least not yet."

"Wait, what?"

She turned and noticed Branson was quickly approaching her, and despite the darkness, she could tell there was a confused and frantic look on his face.

"Well, no formal announcement has been made, but we all know it's going to happen," she explained.

"WHAT?"

Sybil looked up at him, confused by his panicked reaction. "Mary and Matthew!" she hissed, hoping he would realize how loud he was becoming. "My cousin Matthew proposed to my sister, just before we left for London…but no formal announcement has been made, not yet at least. Oh please, don't say anything to anyone," she bit her lip. She knew she could trust Branson to keep the secret, but it wasn't her secret to share.

Branson stared at her, looking completely dumbfounded. "Lady Mary…and Mr. Matthew…?"

Sybil nodded her head. "Yes, of course. Who did you think I meant?"

A long silence passed between them, before a heavy sigh escaped Branson's lungs. "Well…I wish them joy," he murmured, a smile spreading across his face.

Sybil looked up at him, confused by his sudden change in moods. One minute he was panicking, the next, he looked ready to throw a parade! "Are you alright—"

"Perfectly, milady; you have no idea. Well, goodnight!" and before she could open her mouth to question him further, he retreated back to the garage and shut the door.

_Men are strange creatures_, she thought. Still, she couldn't help but smile as she snuck back to her room. She was home…reunited once more with her best friend.

That night, she dreamed of the two of them mucking about the British Museum, shopping among the stalls on Portobello Road, listening to political speakers in the park, while eating chips. In her dream, he wasn't a chauffeur, and she wasn't a member of the aristocracy. They were simply, Sybil and Branson, or, Sybil and Tom.

And in her dream, when the urge arose, she _didn't_ hesitate.


	34. Sybil's Diary IX

_Thanks so much for the lovely reviews! Things have been busy, but thankfully the next few chapters will be a little shorter than the last two, which makes it easier to write and post quickly. There's a little "foreshadowing" in this chapter...you'll see what I mean ;o) Thanks again and please, continue to share your thoughts with me, I appreciate them so much!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Four<strong>

July 17, 1914

What a week! So much has happened after coming home, in fact as I reflect back on this week, I find myself thinking more has happened here at Downton, than during our entire time in London!

A man came today from the telephone company, a Mr. Bromidge. He was a very nice gentleman, very friendly and easy to speak with, and he told me the most extraordinary thing! That he is in desperate need of finding…a secretary!

It took every ounce of willpower I had to not go running from the hall to find Gwen. But I did find her right away and hovered over her while she wrote up an application, listing me as a reference. I didn't read it (I didn't want to appear too pushy), but I refused to leave the room until I knew she had done the task. It's just that she's been so disappointed in the past; I think she's very reluctant to continue trying. But I refuse to give up, and refuse to allow her to do so either, so as soon as I was convinced the ink was dry enough, I snatched the application out of her hands and quickly handed it in to Mr. Bromidge just before he left. I know I've said it before…and I don't want to bring any bad luck on the situation…but I am convinced, absolutely convinced, that _this time_…Gwen will get it!

I must say, I am excited that we will be getting a telephone; I did enjoy using it on occasion while we were in London. Naturally Carson is suspicious (honestly, he and Granny are two peas in a pod!) and somehow thinks it is commentary on his ability to manage things. Papa says it will be useful to have in case…well, in case things get worse on the Continent. Oh God, I pray that they don't, but every day there's some horrible news about riots and demonstrations in Austria, in Serbia, in Germany, and now in Russia…who knows what madness will descend next?

Branson has been a great help during these times. Mama does not wish to have the issue discussed at dinner, or any other meal it seems. Papa appears to share her sentiments, at least when it comes to talking about the issue with me. Honestly, I'm not a child! Nor am I some fragile schoolgirl! I do understand what's happening, at least, I think I understand better than most women my age, and what good does it do to purposefully leave young women in ignorance? None whatsoever! So thank heaven for Branson, because I know I can count on him to treat me like an adult, and a person with a valued mind and opinion.

We talk about little else, lately. It's strange how quickly things can change within a matter of days. I think I've spent every afternoon since we've been back in the garage. And of course, he has to work while I'm sitting on the bench, chattering away like an over-zealous parrot. But he claims he doesn't mind, which I must confess I am glad to hear, because if truth be told…I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

Earlier this week, all I could talk about was London, what had happened while I was there, what I did and what I saw. I went into great detail about the British Museum, and it warmed my heart each time to see him smile as I told him my delight at seeing and learning about all the different exhibits. He shared with me his memories about the museum as well, and it was wonderful being able to exclaim that I had seen the same thing he had. I told him about the speaker in Hyde Park, about how I was able to convince Mary and Edith to join me for an adventure to Portobello Road, even though it was quite obvious that they did not find it as appealing as I had. I even told him all about the parties I attended, although it was clear he didn't like those stories as much as my other ones. I can understand that; if I were a man, I'd probably find those stories rather dull and boring as well.

I demanded that he tell me everything he could about North and South (he finally finished reading it yesterday). I'm so glad that he enjoyed it! I confess, I was afraid he would disregard it because of the romantic element to the story; the romance is only one part of the story, but by no means is it a small part. And Branson is so serious, always focused on politics and current events. He hardly ever reads a novel, although I have caught him now and then reading some of Papa's Dickens collection, although he was quick to explain it was for the "issues pertaining to social justice" to which Charles Dickens writes, not for the purpose of "entertainment". After that statement, I thought North and South would be the safest of my favorites to suggest. I wonder what Branson would think of some of my other favorite books, such as Jane Eyre or Persuasion? Too romantic? Would he give me a patronizing smile, think I'm not so different from other women who enjoy such books? No, I can't imagine he would do that; Branson may be serious, mature-minded person, but he would never patronize me. I wonder what he thinks about romance…

Not that I—I mean, I wasn't—why do I even have to explain myself? This is _my_ diary for heaven's sake!

Anyway, we did talk about North and South, and I was surprised by how he had come around to Thornton's character; in fact, I must admit, I was pleased with how he had come around to him! I can understand why Branson, a man who is proud of his working-class upbringing, would side with a character like Nicholas Higgins, but I am glad that he can…well, maybe sympathize isn't the appropriate word, but…I suppose, find some "redeeming qualities" in a rich, northern mill owner, like Thornton. As for the comparison he once made between me and the character of Margaret, I still don't fully understand it, but I've given up on ever getting an answer. I've asked him to explain it to me at least twice, and both times he quickly turns his head and then seems to take a sudden interest in the engine he's working on.

Now, a bulk of our conversations deals with what's happening on the Continent. The other day I was asking him questions about this Serbian group called "The Black Hand". Branson told me that the topic had come up briefly in the servant's hall. Even though there isn't a great deal of discussion about what's going on, at least the staff are acknowledging that _something_ terrible has happened…and may even _be_ happening as we speak. In my world, it seems that everyone is either pretending nothing has happened, or that it will have little to no effect on England whatsoever. I don't want to live in ignorance, but sometimes I wish I could just "write it off" the way Mary and Edith seem to do.

Both of my sisters seem lost in their own worlds. Sir Anthony Strallen stopped by at the same time I met Mr. Bromidge; apparently, while I was recovering from my head injury after the Count, he and Edith formed quite a…"attachment". It's just as well; Mary is in love with Matthew after all, so I am glad that Sir Anthony isn't keeping his hopes up that she will suddenly turn a keen eye his way. And even though Sir Anthony is old enough to be our father, he is kind, and does seem to genuinely appreciate Edith in a way that I've never seen another man do. I do wish them the best, truly! And who knows…we might be hearing wedding bells for Edith far sooner than for Mary and Matthew…

Oh dear. Mary has only been back for a few days, but it seems that things between her and Matthew aren't…well, to use what Branson calls an "English understatement", aren't going very well. It didn't help that she chose to stay in London a little longer than the rest of us. It certainly didn't help that instead of giving Matthew an answer on the night of my ball, Mary asked him to wait until after she returned to Downton. But now, there's this whole other matter, which sadly seems to be the thing that's keeping Mary from making up her mind…and keeping Matthew in a perpetual grim mood.

When I think about how maddening this week has been, I keep coming back to the one thing that continues to astound us all…Mama's pregnancy! Papa is watching Mama like a hawk, ready to descend and tell her to drop whatever she is doing, and go straight to bed if he thinks she could bring any harm to herself, or the baby. And if it's not Papa, then it's O'Brien. I must say, while I've never really cared for Mama's maid, there is a fierceness in her loyalty that I can only describe as…admirable. I'm very happy for my mother, for both my parents, truly…but sadly, it seems this is the cause for Mary's sudden fickleness.

I don't understand it! I'm trying to be supportive for my sister, truly, but…I just…I can't help it; I get so frustrated when I think about it! Mary—Matthew is in love with you! Can't you see that? You would have to blind not to see that! He loves you just as much as you love him! So _why_ are you being so stupid and not screaming "yes!" to his proposal? There is the possibility that the child could be a boy, of course. And if it is a boy, well…sadly for Matthew, that would mean he loses the entail. But in all honesty, I think Matthew would be fine with that; I don't think becoming the next "Earl of Grantham" ever really had the same appeal for him the way it had for a man like Papa. Matthew cares more about having Mary for his wife than having Downton Abbey for his estate. But…if he's no longer the heir…

No, no, I refuse to believe Mary is that…_that_ selfish! I admit, she can be a snob at times, but I know my sister, I know that under that icy façade she sometimes wears for society, she has a loving and loyal heart. Something's amiss; there's some reason, much deeper than the possibility of whether Matthew loses the entail or not, that's keeping her from accepting his proposal. But I don't know what it is, which is what is frustrating me so!

I'd like to think that if I had the option to marry the man I loved…I wouldn't be so foolish as to make him wait for days and weeks to give him my answer. But then I can't imagine any man having the patience to wait days and weeks, let alone years, to hear a simple "yes" from a woman. Any man should be instantly canonized as a saint. And any woman would be so lucky as to possess such love and devotion…

Do such men exist? I wonder…


	35. Branson's Journal

_Whoo hoo! Another chapter, another quick update! Thanks so much for your wonderful reviews, they really help move me forward, as well as inspire me to spend my free time writing. So please let me know your thoughts and I hope you enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Five<strong>

July 22, 1914

_The Journal of Tom Branson,_

_Irishman, Socialist, Chauffeur—_

...

_Tom Branson's Journal,_

_A collection of political thoughts and opinions by an Irish Socialist, future political—_

_..._

_The Journal of an Irish Socialist—_

_..._

_Political Musings by Tom Branson—_

Oh sod it.

I might as well say, "Here writes the pretentious daydreams of an Irish git".

What a wonderful way to open my journal—truly, what was Sybil thinking when she gave this thing to me? She has far too much faith in me; I do not deserve a quarter of her compliments.

Truth is I've been avoiding this thing. I was astonished by the gift, astonished that she had even thought to get me something. "All great political workers start somewhere!" she had said. And she's right, a great many of the speakers and writers to whom I admire did start by putting their thoughts down in such things as journals, but…who am I kidding? I'm just a chauffeur! I may have given a pretty speech about one day becoming more than that, but the reality of becoming more is much harder to obtain than it is to dream. Still…I owe it to her to write something in this thing. For the last two weeks she's been popping by the garage, sitting and telling me whatever is on her mind while I work on his Lordship's cars, and now and then she asks how my writing goes. I haven't had the heart to tell her that I haven't touched the lovely gift she's given me. Well, here I am, finally writing in it…and making a complete arse of myself.

Thank God no one else will be seeing this thing but me!

Now that I actually have the opportunity to put my opinions down on paper…I have no idea what to say! Or at least no idea on where to begin. Sybil told me she keeps a diary, and just writes whatever thoughts come to her head. She said a great place to start is by simply going over the events of the day. Well…once again I'm stumped, since so much has happened! Where do I begin…?

Mrs. Patmore left yesterday for London, to have some kind of operation done for her eyes. I felt sorry for the poor woman; she looked so frightened, but Anna went with her, and I know she will do whatever she can to ease her worries. I wish Mrs. Patmore the best, but at the same time, I can't deny that I will enjoy a quieter kitchen and servant's hall while she's away. I'm sure Daisy won't mind either. Although William told me the funniest story tonight; apparently, Daisy "sabotaged" their dinner. Mrs. Patmore is afraid that the Crawley's cook, Mrs. Bird, will permanently replace her, so she more or less "ordered" Daisy to purposefully make sure the food tasted awful. Mrs. Bird suspected Daisy was up to something, and had the dishes switched so his Lordship and family were spared the soap flakes, that sadly William and the others were cursed to taste. Perhaps for the first time since coming here, I'm grateful for the rule that the chauffeur, unless invited by the butler, eats in his own cottage.

I'm glad I had a chance to talk with William. He's slowly coming around, and it was good to hear him laugh tonight. I'm also pleased that things between Daisy and him are beginning to mend as well. Thomas and Miss O'Brien seemed pleased as punch about something, and I fear it may have to do with Mr. Bates. Anna revealed that Mr. Carson and his Lordship may feel "forced" to let Bates go. I don't know the whole story, but apparently O'Brien learned something about Bates' past from another lady's maid while in London. If only he would say something about Thomas' likely thievery, then his Lordship would know who to properly blame for all the missing wine and who knows what else! But he refuses; Bates, you're far too good, and Thomas does not deserve your mercy. The only reason I hold my tongue on the matter is because I promised Bates that I would, but God, how I wish I hadn't made that promise. Anna revealed to Gwen that while she's in London, she's going to try and see if she can find a way to clear his name—oh Lord above, please help her!

Well…that's everything I can think of that's happened recently. Would Sybil say that I did right by her with my first attempts at journal writing? She'd probably laugh, but I wouldn't care…I have long since come to find her laugh both endearing and adorable. I wonder what she writes about? Has she ever written about…me? Oh don't be stupid Tom; she may enjoy your company in the garage, but you're a wishful idiot if you think you fill her thoughts enough to the point that she would write about them. No, I'm sure lately her diary has been full of the memories of the grand parties that she attended, and all the English fops that bowed and scraped to win her hand for a dance about the floor.

Could I sound more pathetic? I can call them as many names as I want, but the truth is…I'm jealous that another man had the chance to hold her in his arms…while I was stuck here.

No, no, this is not the purpose for keeping a journal, or at least that was not the intention to which it was given. It's a place for me to flesh out my thoughts and ideas on various issues. For example, Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South. I must say, I enjoyed it far more than I thought I would, especially since I don't read many novels. What impressed me most about the book is the fact that it was written by a woman during a time when women weren't credited for writing about such serious topics as factory conditions, the formation of unions, and worker's rights. I'll have to see if his Lordship keeps any other books by Mrs. Gaskell. Of course, I could simply ask Sybil. I wonder what else she would recommend? I confess, I teased her a little about the romance between the characters of Thornton and Margaret, about how she "conveniently" left that out when recommending the book. Not that I minded…Sybil certainly has given me a whole new perspective on the subject of romance…

But it is fun, making her blush. Or making her stomp her foot in indignation, before she attempts to swing at me with one of her fists. Or watching her poke her tongue out…

Is it possible for a tongue to be pretty? Because she does have the prettiest, pink tongue. I confess, when she does that, it's so tempting to just grab her about the waist and pull her against me, snatching that tongue for myself—

God almighty, help me.

Alright, alright, what on earth was I trying to convey? Gaskell's novel, that's right. Each character was richly depicted, and overall, very well rounded. No one is completely good or bad. I must say, while I know I will always sympathize more with a factory worker over any mill owner…I did find the partnership between the characters of Thornton and Higgins to be very inspiring. I have come to the belief that in order to find solutions, the differing parties must meet and come to an understanding. How easy it is to give in to prejudices and assume the worst of people. I used to be suspicious of the wealthy and powerful (I still am, to a point, if I'm honest) but then you meet someone like his Lordship, who truly is a good man and one of the best employers I have ever known…I mean, he could have simply sacked Mrs. Patmore, but instead he sent her to London to help her get better, and is paying for her operation! Or you meet someone like Lady Sybil Crawley, and suddenly you realize…you realize…

God, she's beautiful…

She just radiates such warmth, such purity, such…such fire! How can you not be inspired, listening to her talk? Even the most ardent masochist would find himself moved by her passion for women's rights! And she's so clever, I mean, I always liked smart girls (I hate it when a woman pretends to be dumb), but…Sybil's wit, her appetite for knowledge, her desire to learn more and her fearlessness to ask questions…truly, her mind is as dazzling as her smile—perhaps _more_ dazzling.

And by some strange miracle…she chooses to spend nearly every afternoon with me, perfectly content to sit on a dusty garage bench while I do my work, and just…talk about whatever comes to her.

What did I do? How did a dosser like me get so lucky? Of course I'm not worthy…but I thank God every night for sending me to this place…and for introducing me to a remarkable woman like Lady Sybil Crawley…

Oh Lord, what would Martin say if he could see me now? Love-sick fool that I am; at least I've admitted to that much. I might as well give up on trying to write about anything pertaining to politics, at least for this entry. My mind is clearly focused…elsewhere.

Who am I kidding? It's been focused…elsewhere…for a long time now.

Am I fooling myself? How are my feelings any different to my dreams about a future in politics? Both are unattainable.

And yet…I can't help myself.

I know that it's hopeless, but I've given up in trying to fight it; let Love claim me as another victim. I may regret it later (and probably will) but right now…I'll just enjoy the time I have with her, the moments where she pops by, sits and shares her thoughts, her questions, her worries and joys, sits and bestows me with a dazzling smile or an adorable laugh.

And I'll selfishly soak it all up and store it deep in my heart, so later when I'm alone, I can dream and pretend that she's as in love with me as I am with her.


	36. Sybil's Diary X

_Thanks again for the wonderful comments and reviews! You're really helping fuel my writing muse! Another "short" chapter, building up to the garden party, and the end of Volume I. But Volume II is on the horizon (which will be a part of this over-arching story) and I have been brainstorming ideas for my "missing years" companion piece. I'm open to suggestions if you have any, or what you would like to see when I start writing Volume II (which will be the events of the second season). For the time being, I hope you enjoy this journey into Sybil's mind! _

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Six<strong>

July 24, 1914

She saw him! Gwen saw Mr. Bromidge, she had a proper interview and everything! Oh I can't stop smiling; I can barely sit still and write! It's going to happen, truly, I _feel_ it, I really do!

I was so worried, after a week had passed and no word had been heard, but it was like kismet; he arrived to oversee the final installments for the telephone just as I was passing the library. I was on my way to the garage, needing to talk to Branson, needing to air my worries over the lack of response from Mr. Bromidge, for it had been plaguing my mind for several days. He's so good, Branson; how many times has he had to put up with my complaining? He never patronizes me, or rolls his eyes, he just listens and waits to share his thoughts when I'm finished venting, never once interrupting. Oh but I'm wandering off topic!

I couldn't be silent; I had to ask why we hadn't heard from him. And Mr. Bromidge told me the most extraordinary thing! That there was no "proof" that Gwen knew anything about hard work. I was momentarily flummoxed, and immediately corrected him. Perhaps I should have looked twice at Gwen's application? I hadn't realized she left out the fact that she currently serves as a housemaid. But I shouldn't judge too harshly; so many people have preconceived notions. I'm sure she assumed, as Mr. Bromidge had guessed, that he wouldn't be interested in hiring a housemaid to come and work in an office, thinking housemaids are too far beneath such positions. When I was in London and dared to mention to any of Aunt Rosamond's friends that I had an interest in politics, I was met with so many condescending smiles and titters of laughter that I began to feel utterly discouraged to share anything. But thankfully, Mr. Bromidge isn't that kind of person (meaning he's not snobbish about housemaids; I have no idea what his thoughts are when it comes to politics). He agreed to meet with Gwen right then and there, and I immediately set up the interview in the library, and then stood guard while the two of them spoke.

I can't help but giggle at Papa's look of annoyance when I more or less ordered him away. I was rather like a lioness, guarding her den. How tempting it was to put my head to the door, to try and catch what they were saying! But I didn't. And the interview wasn't that long, which in some respects should cause some worry, but…the look on Gwen's face when she exited the library; I saw what I hadn't seen in so long…a glimmer of _hope_. And Mr. Bromidge looked quite pleased as well! Yes, yes, I do think this will happen!

As soon as I was able, I ran to the garage and more or less burst through the door, causing poor Branson to jump and unfortunately bang his head on the bonnet lid of Papa's Renault. I felt awful about that, and probably spent the first twenty minutes of my time there apologizing. But Branson just laughed any pain away, and urged me to say whatever exciting news I had to say, so I did, I told him everything that had happened, about Gwen's interview and Mr. Bromidge's comment about housemaids and hard work…and then about how I just…how I just felt so positive, so sure, so…confident, that she's won the job. I know, as I've heard Mrs. Patmore say, I shouldn't count my chickens before they hatch, but…ooohhh I'm so excited! Right now, I just…I don't know, I just want to run! I want to go outside and run barefoot through the garden grass, I want to feel the wind whipping through my air, I just…I can't sit still! Sleep is impossible! I know that my skin is going to be crawling with excitement and anticipation over the next few days while we wait for an answer. Oh God, please let it be soon! I think I will go mad if I have to wait very long!

Oh, silly girl, this isn't about yourself—poor Gwen, I wonder what's going through her mind right now? I wonder if she's feeling the same confidence and excitement that I'm feeling? Or is she feeling doubt and dread? Oh I should have been more attentive tonight, when she was here. I should have asked after her, I should have asked for her opinion on how she felt the interview went and what sort of questions he had asked. Was it my imagination? No, no, I'm sure that was hope I had seen in her eyes! But she's been disappointed before, maybe Gwen was simply putting that look on for my benefit? Oh Lord, how selfish I'm being! Tomorrow, I will find her and hopefully have a chance to talk with her about these things—that is, of course, if I can pull her away from Mrs. Hughes.

Mrs. Hughes is working frantically in trying to get the annual Garden Party off and running. I always find it amusing how Mama is credited for the Garden Party…and yet Mrs. Hughes is the one who does a large bulk of the work. I'm sure Branson would have a cheeky comment to make, something along the lines of "typical; the working class do the work, but the upper class take the credit". I giggle now, thinking of him saying that, I know he would say it in such a way as to make me laugh…but now that I pause and think about it…it isn't remotely funny.

Mrs. Hughes _should_ get the credit, or at the very least, she should get "proper" acknowledgement, meaning from the whole party, not just a private thank-you from my parents when the whole affair is over. I'm not saying that Mama doesn't do _any_ work, after all, she's the one who organizes the list of whom to invite, she writes the invitations and sends them out, she selects the music that the quartet will play, and oversees the menu that will be served…but Mrs. Hughes orders the flowers and the food, hires the labor to come and set up the tents and canopies, makes sure that the musicians have the music they need, sees to all the table decorations, hands out jobs to all the staff, making sure everything is working like a well-oiled machine...no, I'm not saying that Mama doesn't do any work, I'm just saying that Mrs. Hughes does _more_! And she should receive proper credit for it.

All the staff are working extra hard right now, and not just because of the upcoming party. There is a buzz of excitement going on because of Mama's pregnancy. Branson told me how several of the kitchen maids think that they should sew something, like a pair of booties or a blanket. Apparently O'Brien scoffed at the idea. She's been acting funny lately, Mama's maid. A week ago she was hovering around Mama, being so attentive, ready to swoop in if Mama dared to bend over and pick something up off the floor. But I have noticed that she seems…colder, and more aloof, these past few days. No one would ever claim O'Brien as a warm and sentimental person, but Mama does adore her for some reason, and they do seem to have a friendship of sorts. Yet recently, O'Brien's care and attentiveness hasn't been as, well, as obvious as it was a week ago. And it may have simply been my imagination, but I thought I had noticed her looking at Mama with what I could only describe as…disdain.

Things seem to be progressing well for Edith and Sir Anthony! He has called upon her several times over the last few days, and had dinner with us last night. He announced that he was going to London in a day or two, but would be back in time for the garden party. I asked him, very politely, why he was going, and he simply looked across the table at Edith, who was blushing furiously, and said, with what can only be described as a knowing smile, that he had an "important errand to run". I held my tongue, but I couldn't help grinning in Edith's direction. Then I glanced over at Mary…and my smile fell instantly.

Oh Mary…she still hasn't given Matthew an answer. He has been absent these past few nights, even though Papa has invited him and Cousin Isobel to have dinner with us every day of this week. I think he's hoping more than anyone else, that Mary will say "yes", at last. I keep clinging to that hope too…and still find it so frustrating! But this is a frustration I can't vent to Branson; as much as I trust him to be discreet, I have no right airing my sister's secrets—they are not mine to share and tell. That doesn't mean, however, that I don't _want_ to say something! I wonder what he would say?

I just realized that I know so little about Branson's past…or his present, for that matter! I know he has at least one brother, named Frank if memory serves, and several sisters, but how many, I'm not sure. He's mentioned his mother now and then, but never speaks of his father. Is he dead? Estranged? I don't know! He has a cousin, who is closer to him in age than his own brother, and who is also a chauffeur and serves a family in Devon. But that's it! I know more about Branson's political views than I do about his own upbringing! Oh, that's terrible. It is something I must correct right away…but would he tell me anything? I mean, I don't want to appear nosey; he does have a right to keep some things in private…

What would he keep in private?

Does Branson have a sweetheart? Is there a girl waiting for him, back in Ireland? Maybe the reason he came here was to earn enough money so that he could buy them a proper house before they marry. Or is there a girl here, on staff? I've never noticed him looking at any of the maids, but then I only really see him in the garage, or on drives. What goes on in the servant's hall? Does he flirt with any of the girls there? Do they flirt with him? Oh goodness…does _Gwen_ like him? _Does he like Gwen?_ The two of them are quite close—

Good gracious, listen to me! What on earth has come over me? Why am I even…?

Well, I…well…

Goodness, is that the time? I should best end this entry and try to get some sleep. All of my hopes and prayers to Gwen! And…well, there really isn't anything more to say, is there?

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><p><em>Oh there is plenty more to say... ;o) Thanks for reading!<em>


	37. A Letter Home in a Time of Crisis

_Well, it has been fun, writing and posting these last few chapters in quick succession, but I'm sad to say that things will start to slow down now...but you never know! Your thoughts and reviews really push me, so I may be able to churn the next chapter out much faster than I anticipated! We shall see!_

_A little thing to mention about this chapter; originally, due to the subject matter, I was going to have it be another diary entry from Sybil's perspective. But then I began thinking and wondering "what was going through Branson's head, when this happened? Did he care? What was his reaction?" So I chose to wipe the slate clean and brainstorm a new idea on how to write the chapter, and ta da! In truth, I actually like this much more than my original idea...please let me know what you think!_

_Also, once again, so little is known about Branson's family and background-hopefully season 3 of "Downton" will be able to finally answer some of those questions, but in the meantime, here's my take on his family history._

_I apologize for the sadness of the subject matter of this chapter, but as fans of the show, we all knew this would be brought up and discussed at some point. So I warn you right now...you might want to have a tissue nearby, just in case._

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Seven<strong>

Dear Mother,

First, I would like to apologize for the shortness of my last few letters. While I can claim diligence in writing to you on a regular basis, and sending you what money I can…I know that's not the reason you open my letters. I know that the money helps, but I know what helps even more is hearing how I am, and knowing that I'm alright. So for being brief and saying very little in those last few letters, I apologize. And I will be making up for it, with this one.

But indulge me if you will, by asking after you? How are you? How are the girls? How is Frank? Has he had any luck in finding work? How are Kathleen and that fiancée of hers? Have they set a date yet? I have some holiday time coming up, and plan to spend a few days in Devon visiting Martin, but I'm sure his Lordship, the Earl of Grantham, will grant me a little more if I explain that my sister needs me to walk her down the aisle. How are the rest of the family? Alright, alright, I suppose that's enough questions for right now, but I do hope that all of you are well, and please know that not a day goes by when I don't think and pray for you all.

Perhaps you're surprised by my sudden emotion? I hope you can feel it radiating through the ink on this paper. I'm sure you can guess part of the reason. I write this to you on the 29th of July, 1914…one day after the Austrian invasion of Serbia…

War. Oh God, Mother, it's actually happened.

In some ways, I'm shocked that it took this long since the Archduke's death; one month exactly. I know that the Austrians have been angling for a fight with the Serbs ever since, but where will this end? There are some here who think (or perhaps hope) that it will stay there, on that side of the Continent, but I don't believe that for a second. I wish it were true, but with the tensions that have been building up between both countries and their allies over the last few weeks, I fear it's only a matter of time before Germany throws its hat in the ring and declares war on either France or Russia…and England will only stay silent for so long. And if England goes to war…we both know what that will do to Ireland.

God, I hate this. More than anything, I hate this…this feeling of…helplessness. Because that is what I feel; helpless to whatever fate that a bunch of hot-headed politicians and war hawks declare. Promise me you'll do whatever you can to keep Frank out of it. I know he's only seventeen and hasn't quite yet reached his majority, but you know how he can be—always jumping into a fight without thinking, always sticking a foot in his mouth; I know you won't let him do anything stupid, but…just write back and reassure me, please…I need the peace of mind.

Well, as I said, that's part of the reason for my letter. The other part…well, I didn't know who else to speak to, and I know you will understand.

The Countess of Grantham, my employer's wife, she…she suffered a miscarriage yesterday. It's strange in a sense; two completely different events that happened on the same date, yet both equally dark and utterly wretched.

Her Ladyship hasn't had a child in eighteen years, so the pregnancy itself was a shock. But it filled the house with such happiness and excitement. I've never seen so many people, people who rarely interact with her Ladyship, people to whom she probably can't even name…look so thrilled at the thought of welcoming a little one…and who now look so dejected at the loss. In some ways, I'm amazed at my own emotion. I remember how we nearly lost little Moira, how when she was born she wasn't breathing and the doctor looked utterly bewildered and helpless. I remember Frank and the girls looking so confused, and Kathleen leaning against my shoulder, crying as I stared in horror at the tiny, blue-faced baby. And then I remember Da, reaching out with trembling hands, taking the child from the doctor's arms and slapping Moira several times on the back. I remember flinching at the sickening sound, staring at him with disgust and hating him so much, wanting to wrench her away and give her some dignity…and then I remember staring in shock as a cry erupted from her purple lips. You remember that December night better than anyone. That's the closest we've ever come to losing someone. I felt so blessed that we never had to go through that, unlike the mothers of many of my friends. A miscarriage is not that uncommon, sadly, but I've never had to live through the pain of one…until yesterday.

There's someone here, who…well, who's a very good friend. And she's very close to her Ladyship. She was the one who came and told me about her Ladyship's fall; God, I'll never forget that sight, her bursting into the garage, her hair tumbling down her back in panicked disarray, her eyes wide with fear as tears rolled down her cheeks. I drove as fast as I could to fetch the doctor, nearly crashing the car in the process. He assured me several times last night that it wouldn't have mattered if I had gotten to him any sooner, but I can't help but keep thinking over and over that if I _had_ driven faster, if I _had_ gotten him back to the house sooner…her Ladyship's baby would have been saved. Oh Mother…I know what you're thinking, and I thank you for those thoughts. As for my friend…I haven't seen her at all today—I'm sure she's been busy, tending to her Ladyship. But seeing the fear and the pain on her face and in her eyes when she came to me…God almighty, it broke my heart, Mother. I suppose…if I'm honest with myself, that's why this tragedy has affected me so. Because I feel as if…as if I failed her. Does that sound awful? I don't mean to sound selfish; I truly am sad and sorry for her Ladyship and his Lordship, but…I just wish I could have spared my friend this pain. As I said before, I hate feeling helpless.

But I know what you would say, and if I close my eyes, I can hear your voice reminding me that "time is the great healer of all wounds". I only pray that it moves faster and comes sooner for my friend and the Crawley family.

Oh write to me soon, Mother, please. I need to hear some good news right now, some good news from home. I think that will heal far better than time, if I'm honest. I will be sure to give your love to Martin when I see him, and please give mine to the rest of the family, although I don't know if Uncle Michael will accept it, but he might if someone other than myself, is delivering the message. Please take care of yourself, don't work too hard, and know how much I love and miss you all.

Your loving son,

Tom


	38. Hope in the Midst of Doom

_Thanks again to my readers, suscribers, and reviewers! Only 2 more chapters of "Volume One" (season 1) left! Which brings us to a moment many of you have told me you've been waiting anxiously for...THE GARDEN PARTY! I hope you enjoy, and please, let me know what you think! I always appreciate hearing from readers, it really helps my muse. Thanks!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Eight<strong>

Lavender and cream.

They were two colors he never gave much thought to, but after today, he would be forever fond of them.

He couldn't help but smile as he watched her move, a gentle summer breeze rolling across the fabric of her cream-colored dress, and the tiny lavender designs that adorned it, reminding him of flowers rippling in a windy field. It wasn't one of her finest dresses, and really, could anything compare to her harem pants? Still, he thought it suited her, perhaps more so than any other dress he had seen her in. Soft and gentle, but free and beautiful…just like her.

"Be careful my lad…"

He had just taken a deep breath, forcing himself to look away and return back to the house from where he had come, when he was stopped short by the Scottish housekeeper who stood in front of him, like the formidable wall that surrounded a fortress.

Another sigh escaped his lips as he met the woman's eyes. _Here we go_, he thought. She was going to tell him off, he knew it; best to just grin and bear it.

"…or you'll end up with no job and a broken heart."

That wasn't _quite_ what he had been expecting.

On the outside, he forced a tiny smile, his eyes never leaving those of Mrs. Hughes. His body was rigid and his hands were clasped tightly behind his back. His voice didn't betray any of the emotion that was raging inside of him, as he murmured back, "What do you mean?"

Mrs. Hughes tilted her head slightly, her eyes examining him with such intensity that it did cause his jaw to clench and his heart to flinch. Then, a soft sigh escaped her lips, and the sound could only be described as one of disappointment.

She didn't say anything further. There was no accusing tirade or warning speech telling him he ought to know better and shame on him for forgetting himself…

Nothing of the sort. She simply gave her head a tiny shake…and then walked away.

Outside, he remained calm and collected.

Inside…his head and his heart were at war.

_YOU IDIOT! How could you be so careless?_

He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, as if the summer air could calm his rapidly beating heart. Even though his rational side had surrendered in the war of his emotions, that didn't mean it happily remained silent. Every so often, his rational side would berate him for displaying foolish behavior…like just now. However, no amount of warning or berating, be it from Mrs. Hughes or the rational part of his brain, could silence the cries of his heart in that moment…

_SHE TOOK MY HAND! _

A ghost of a smile spread across his face as he recalled the sweet memory of her small, soft fingers, lacing with his. God almighty, he was trembling! He opened his eyes and looked down at his hand, noticing how it quaked. He had a suspicion that the only thing to stop it would be the feel of her fingers once again.

He lifted his eyes and dared to look across the lawn, trying to find her in the sea of white and cream. Did posh people always wear those colors to garden parties? Mrs. Hughes had told her that her Ladyship was asking after her, but Branson knew that it had been an excuse to remove the two of them from one another. Still, he searched for the Countess, knowing that if he could spot her, Sybil would be close by. Instead, his eyes caught those of Gwen's, who was grinning from ear to ear, her entire body trembling in giddy excitement. He couldn't help but grin back and nod his head, to which she quickly returned the nod, before going about whatever task she had to do. "Only a few more days," he couldn't help but murmur, even though he knew she wouldn't be able to hear him. Only a few more days of wearing the uniform of a housemaid, only a few more days of doing the things that housemaids did; only a few more days…until she could finally begin living her dream.

It had finally happened, just as Sybil declared it would, just as Sybil never stopped believing it would.

Ah, Sybil. God, how hard and how quickly and how deeply he had fallen.

It was good to finally have something to be smiling about. The last few days had been filled with more tragedy and trepidation than a person should have to face in a single year. It had only been eight days ago that her Ladyship fell and lost the baby, which now everyone knew would have been the future Earl of Grantham, had he survived. It had also only been eight days ago that the world went utterly mad. Austria declared war on Serbia, and then five days later, Germany declared war on Russia. And yesterday, Germany invaded Belgium, as well as declared war on France. Where was this madness to end? The answer chilled his heart.

But now was not the time for questions or concerns; the garden party must go on! So here they all were, the Downton staff running in and out of the kitchens, serving iced cakes and cucumber sandwiches to these look-alike snobs, who were either laughing or making various comments on the weather…and completely ignoring the impending doom that was possibly facing them.

He wanted no part of it, and was thankful that as chauffeur he wasn't expected to make an appearance. He had planned on keeping himself locked away in his cottage, lost in one of his books…but the need to see _her_ was constantly pressing on his chest.

They hadn't had the chance to talk much, not since that awful day. Sybil, naturally, spent a large amount of her time by her mother's side, doing whatever odd job she could, doing anything to help ease the emotional burden that weighed down on the Countess' heart. He smiled as he recalled something he had overheard Mrs. Hughes say to Mr. Carson. "That girl has an extraordinary gift; she has done far more for her Ladyship than any amount of medical care Dr. Clarkson can perform." He needed no convincing; Branson had long since believed that Sybil's very presence was the best medicine for any ailment.

And that was what he needed. With everything that had happened this week and could possibly happen in the weeks to come, he needed to be reminded that there was something good and pure in this world, and seeing her face would do just that. So he left his cottage and wandered into the kitchens, trying to think of some excuse for attending the party. He just needed to see her face, that was all; perhaps he could "help" one of the kitchen maids by carrying a heavy tray outside? But his thoughts were interrupted by a shrill ringing from the butler's pantry.

"Lord, listen to that!" Mrs. Patmore exclaimed to Mrs. Bird, before equating the sound to that of a banshee.

Branson came around the corner and looked at the two cooks who were just staring at the ringing contraption with a mixture of fascination and horror. "Mr. Carson's telephone is ringing," he pointed out. The women continued staring. "Well…aren't you going to answer it?"

Mrs. Patmore seemed to momentarily come out of her stupor and looked up at Branson in utter dismay at his question. "I wouldn't touch that thing with a ten-foot pole!"

Branson groaned and shook his head. "Well I will then," he grumbled, irritated that he was being kept from his task. He stalked into the pantry and not so gently grabbed the slender base of the phone, before yanking the earpiece to his head and answering the voice on the other side. Naturally whoever it was wanted to speak to Mr. Carson. "No, Mr. Carson's busy…but can I take a message?"

He nearly dropped the earpiece as the message was relayed to him. "T-t-thank you," he stammered, joy flooding his body at Mr. Bromidge's parting words. "Yes…yes, I will make sure she gets the message," he promised, before hanging up. He didn't need to create an excuse; he had a wonderful reason to find Lady Sybil and tell her everything he had just learned!

And so he quickly threw on his livery jacket, smoothed his hair down in an effort of trying to look as "presentable" as possible, and rushed out of the kitchens, his eyes spanning across the sea of cream suits and white dresses.

It didn't take him long to spot her; he had her figure burned to his memory.

He couldn't help but grin as he rushed over to where she stood. She looked so bored, listening to Lady Edith and two other young women go on and on about something. He slowed his pace just before he approached her, trying to look distinguished to her companions, but he couldn't stop smiling. "I've got news, milady!" he whispered, an excited air in his voice. Sybil turned her head, surprised to see him there, and he swore his heart skipped at the little relieved smile she bestowed upon him. He leaned down, whispering his news in her ear, catching the scent of her lilac perfume. How tempting it was to bury his face in her hair, to lose himself in that scent, to feel the softness of her skin, to run his mouth along her jaw until he found her lips…

"OH!" Sybil gasped, bringing him back from his fantasy. He didn't mind; it was worth it seeing the joy he felt reflected in her beautiful eyes.

Her sister and their two friends looked confused, and were about to ask what was going on, but Sybil simply gave them a little apologetic smile, before nudging his elbow to follow her. As if he needed convincing; he'd follow her to the ends of the earth if she asked. He couldn't help but laugh as their joy took hold, and she joined him with one of her sweet giggles, the two of them jogging quickly to where a certain redheaded housemaid stood, but a few feet away.

"You've done it, Gwen!" Sybil practically burst. "Mr. Bromidge just rung, you got the job!"

Branson simply stood there, grinning like an idiot, but he didn't care. He was so happy for his friend, so happy that after everything that had happened there was still _something_ good and hopeful to believe in.

The look on Gwen's face was precious. She stared in shock as the words washed over her. But it didn't take her long for the realization of what was being said to sink in. "OH!" she gasped, just as Sybil had done when he told her the news. Another maid was passing, and Gwen all but thrust the tray she was holding into the other girl's hands. "TAKE IT, TAKE IT!" she practically squealed. As soon as her hands were free, Gwen let out a shriek of happy delight and without warning, launched herself at both him and Sybil.

The two of them laughed as they caught her, their arms encircling her and with a little help, Branson was able to swing her up off the ground. Her reaction was instantly contagious, for Branson couldn't help but put his other arm around Sybil, and she, much to his delight, did the same. It had only been a moment, the three of them laughing and hugging each other, but it was a blessed moment.

That was when Mrs. Hughes interrupted.

"Something to celebrate?"

To say that her question had a barking, disapproving edge to it would be an understatement. Still, no amount of frowns or harsh warnings would be enough to wipe the joyful smiles from their faces as they all but reluctantly, released each other.

Or so he thought…

Gwen began to explain, why she was so happy, what she had just learned that had caused her to forget herself, and Branson was standing tall and pleased, grinning with such pride as he listened to Gwen share her good news—and then, without warning…he felt something small and soft enfold his hand…

The world fell away then.

Had his hand been moving as well? He wasn't sure, but he supposed it had. He supposed in that moment of pride, his hand had purposefully moved towards hers, but it was _her_ hand that had found his, and it was _her_ hand that had taken his, and it was _her_ hand that had initiated the lacing of their fingers…

And it was _her_ hand that had squeezed his back.

If lightning suddenly gathered, and chose at that moment to strike him dead…he would die a happy man.

He turned slightly to Sybil, his eyes looking down at their laced fingers. She was looking there too. He looked up and caught her gaze then, her beautiful lips parted as if to say something, but no words came. He felt his heart lift and soar, and for the first time since coming to terms with his feelings for the youngest Crawley daughter, he actually believed that perhaps it _was_ possible…that she could love a man like him. Before he even realized it, words were coming out of his mouth. "I don't suppose—"

"Lady Sybil!" Once again, Mrs. Hughes interrupted.

What had he been about to say? As much as he argued with his rationality, it did keep him from putting his foot in his mouth. Good God, had he been about to tell her _everything?_

"_I don't suppose you could love a man like me? A servant, a working class Irishman, a hot-headed socialist? I know it seems that I have nothing to offer, certainly not a title or an estate or a mountain of money…but I can offer you love and passion, and a promise that I will work my fingers to bone to make you happy and never regret choosing me…"_

As much as he blamed Mrs. Hughes for bringing them back to reality, he was grateful that she had stopped him from making an absolute, complete arse of himself.

Still, he couldn't help but smile, even though he had to bite his lip from showing it when Sybil gave him an annoyed look at Mrs. Hughes' insistence that she go to her mother _now_, of all moments. And as soon as Sybil was gone, that was when the housekeeper cornered him, giving him that infamous warning…to which he responded as oblivious as possible.

_Go on_, he thought, both to Mrs. Hughes and his rational side; really, to the whole world. _Say I'm a fool, call me an idiot, and tell me what you will about me being too far beneath her…the truth is, _she_ took _my_ hand…_

He watched as Gwen hurried over to Anna, knowing full well what she was telling her friend. Not too far beyond them stood Bates and Mr. Matthew's valet, Mr. Moseley; they appeared to be engaged in a rather intense discussion, though both seemed to have their eyes locked on Anna's back. Out of the corner of his eye, Branson saw Daisy scurry with a tray full of ices. She passed the tray onto William, before giving the young footman a smile that could only be described as one of adoration. William blushed, and Branson couldn't help but chuckle, especially when he noticed Thomas pass the two of them. William boasted a proud smirk and Branson knew exactly why; on the night of her Ladyship's miscarriage, William and Thomas finally had it out. The remnants of Thomas' black eye had all but faded, but if you squinted, you could still manage see a shadow of it. Indeed, just as Branson had muttered to William after the fight, "the bastard had it coming."

And just beyond all of them…he saw the large tent where her Ladyship rested…and next to her sat Sybil. She was holding her mother's hand, and said something that caused her Ladyship to laugh. Indeed, Sybil had done more for her mother than anything Dr. Clarkson could have done. She seemed a real natural when it came to caring for others, like Florence Nightengale.

Mr. Carson was heading towards the tent where the Earl now resided by her Ladyship, carrying a small, silver tray. Branson briefly caught the bulter's eye, and knew that was his cue to make a hasty exit before any questions were asked to why he was at the party in the first place. He turned on his heel and quickly retreated back to the house, his hand tingling and his smile never wavering for a second.

Hope. Despite everything that had happened within the last few days, despite the odds that were stacked against him because of his position in society in ever achieving any of his dreams…he felt hope. And all because Lady Sybil Crawley had reached out, and taken his hand.

He had just reached the kitchen entrance and was about to retreat inside, when he noticed the music had stopped. A chill ran down his spine and he turned back towards the party, his brow creased with confusion…and a sudden wave of dread.

Lord Grantham was waving his arms, drawing everyone's attention. Branson could see a tiny piece of paper clutched within his Lordship's fingers, but it was the sight of his Lordship's face that caused his heart to plummet.

"My Lords, Ladies, and Gentlemen…can I ask for silence? Because I very much regret to announce…that we are at war with Germany."

* * *

><p><em>For all you history lovers out there, here are the WWI dates mentioned in this chapter:<br>July 28...WWI officially begins with Austria declaring war on Serbia  
><span>August 1<span>...Germany declares war on Russia  
><span>August 3<span>...Germany invades Belgium and declares war on France  
><span>August 4<span>...England declares war on Germany...  
>...and we all know where this will lead. THANKS FOR READING!<em>


	39. Sybil's Diary XI

_THANK YOU to everyone who has read and reviewed and shared this fic with others. There's only one more chapter left of this volume, before I dive into exploring series 2. My goal is to have that last chapter up before the weekend is over, so stay tuned! _

_Here, we have Sybil's diary entry, where she will share her personal thoughts and feelings on what happened at the Garden Party. It was a difficult chapter to start, but once I got over that first hurdle, I couldn't stop writing! I hope you enjoy and please, let me know your thoughts, as well as any hopes/wishes of things you would like to see or explored in the next volume, as well as in the upcoming companion piece that will cover "the missing years". Thanks again!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Nine<strong>

August 4, 1914

War…

Honestly, I…I don't even know where…or how…

…

…

I'm like a caged beast; I can't stop pacing, and yet I have all these thoughts rushing through my mind and I want to get them down on paper, but as soon as I sit and attempt to write, my body urges me to move, and once again, I find myself pacing!

…

…

I'm trying to keep calm. When I find myself pacing, I try to hum or whistle something, concentrating on the music, concentrating on _anything_, really, other than this frightening reality we're all facing…

I don't know why I'm so shocked. Everything seemed to be pointing towards this. When we first heard that Austria had declared war on Serbia, Edith murmured, "Well maybe the fighting will just stay there, between those two?" Papa tried to smile at what she said, but I knew that he was merely attempting to conceal the dread we were all feeling. Of course, there was little time to contemplate such things; we were all so focused on caring for Mama. But I do remember the days that followed, hearing rumors about Austria's allies, wondering if they were going to take a stand, and then word reached us of Germany's declaration of war against Russia. But Mama, who at that point was well enough to leave her bed, insisted that the Garden Party go on, despite everything that had happened, declaring that it would be a "glimmer of hope and light during these anxious times".

I remember standing there earlier today, feeling so bored, feeling so…useless. I stayed by Edith's side for the most part; she was extremely nervous, wondering where Sir Anthony was, asking me every so often if I saw him. She tried to calm her anxiety by leading any conversation to which we were engaged in, and when she couldn't think of something to say, she would ask me to talk about my season in London. I confess, I felt like a puppet, speaking and moving when told to, going through the motions so that everyone could pretend that nothing horrible had happened or was going to happen…

Only one good thing has come out of this day, and I'm trying to cling to it as much as possible. Gwen got the job! She did it! She's going to be a secretary! I'm so happy for her, truly.

Oh Lord, my eyes are starting to water again. Earlier tonight, when Gwen was here, I couldn't help it; I threw my arms around her and hugged her so fiercely, I'm afraid I may have bruised her arms! But she laughed and hugged me back, and we remained hugging like that for a long time, and then much to both our surprises…I started sobbing like a baby!

Gwen was good, she rubbed a soothing hand up and down my back, and when I finally managed to lift my tear-stained face away from her shoulder, she only smiled at me. I don't know what brought on that wave of emotion; I will miss her so much, that is true. I am close to Anna, but not nearly as much as I am to Gwen. Gwen and I have been through so much together, whether it's sharing our dreams or creating elaborate schemes to get her to job interviews. But…as I write this, I…I think I know why I wept as I did. Yes, I will dearly miss my friend…but I am selfish enough to admit, that I _still_ envy her so. She will leave, to pursue her dreams and change the world…while I'll be stuck here, trapped in this role of _Lady_ Sybil Crawley, whose only prospect is to marry some wealthy lord.

If Papa weren't still awake, down in his library and talking on the telephone with some of his colleagues from his army days, I would sneak out to the garage. Branson would understand my woe; he would understand my fear and anxiety better than anyone! He…oh, Branson…

…We held hands today, he and I. It was strictly by accident, but…

…

…

…

I couldn't sit still again, I had to pace. It was Branson who found me, standing by Edith and attempting to pay attention to whatever it was our friends were saying. I was shocked to see him there, but I couldn't contain my smile, so happy and grateful to finally see him after too many days of not having the opportunity. He looked so handsome; I must say, I know he doesn't desire to remain a chauffeur…but he looks so…_distinguished_…in his livery jacket.

…

…Anyway, he whispered in my ear the good news about Gwen. I remember feeling my cheeks burn as he bent his head towards me, at first unsure as to what he was doing (Oh Lord, I wonder if Edith noticed?) But I was gasping as soon as he told me, and without any delay, I knew we had to go and find Gwen that very second and tell her too!

It was wonderful, seeing the happiness and joy and surprise on her face. It was also quite hysterical, the way she launched herself at both Branson and me. Thank God he was there to help catch her, otherwise we would have landed on the ground! Gwen hugged us both, and we hugged her back…and Branson, he…he put his arm…

…I don't know why I'm being so…so silly about all of this; it's not as if he hasn't done that before! The first time we attended that political rally in Ripon, Branson put his arm around my shoulder to guide me safely back to the car…

Although, I do remember how wonderful it felt, even then…

BUT that was only because it felt…safe…and secure…nothing more.

…

Mrs. Hughes found us like that, laughing and hugging over Gwen's good news. Naturally she wanted to know why. I remember looking at Mrs. Hughes, who was stern and frowning as Gwen explained the situation, and I remember listening to Gwen, feeling such pride and joy, and…and I remember my hand moving…

…I found his. And…and before I realized what was happening, I gripped his hand, and laced my fingers through his, and I remember gasping slightly, at the feel of his large, warm fingers…

…And then, he squeezed my hand. And I squeezed back…

He was going to say something to me, but I don't know what. Mrs. Hughes interrupted and said that Mama wanted me. I knew it was a lie, but I didn't dare question her. I turned and fled to where I knew Mama was sitting, feeling his eyes burning into my back, while my hand and fingers continued tingling…

Oh God…I…I…I need to get up and walk.

…

…

What should I do? The world has slipped into madness—England is at war, Gwen is leaving, and Branson…

I don't know what to think anymore. I'm not sure of anything! All I know is…I'll go mad if he leaves.

It's a selfish thing to say, but it's true. I need him…more than perhaps I'm willing to admit…

...

...

…at least out loud.


	40. 1914: A Third Letter to Martin

**Chapter Forty**

Dear Martin,

I'm sitting in my cottage, writing to you on the night of August 4, 1914, a day that will no doubt go down in history. By the time you receive this letter, you and the rest of the world will have long awakened to the terrifying reality that I heard today, at a garden party of all places.

We are at war.

Well, I should say England is at war, but you and I both know that until Ireland becomes a free state, it's trapped in this madness as well.

Honestly, for once, I'm at a complete loss. I don't even know what to think right now, other than dread. What will this mean? What will be expected? Will anything be expected? These are the sort of questions that everyone here has been asking. Some of the kitchen lads were very excited; a few of them even talked about going to his Lordship tomorrow to seek permission to enlist. Damned fools. They think it's all glory and honor, but can they even begin to conceive that some of them, possibly _all_ of them…won't be coming back? That's the problem! They see themselves as these invincible warriors, and don't seem to grasp that during war, life becomes less and less a certainty.

…

…

I've been thinking a lot today, after hearing this news. Thinking about life, and being reminded how short it is. I feel—no, _I know_, you deserve an explanation from me. An explanation for my, shall we say, "peculiarity" as of late. The reason, for my lack of correspondence, for my emotional outbursts, for my insistence that you marry your Rachel is…because…I'm in love.

That may not sound so surprising; after all, I've been going on and on about this suffragette I know for over a year. But…there's something you don't know, something I haven't been entirely…honest about.

Martin, I have a confession to make.

Remember, last year, not too long after I started working here, that I told you about how one of Lord Grantham's daughters sought out my help in looking up advertisements? I wrote you about it, and in my letter I found the whole situation amusing, as well as quite…charming. Do you remember this incident? Do you remember how you responded? I certainly do…

_"Don't be a bloody fool, Tom! Stay away; don't get involved, it will only lead to trouble!"_

Did you think I listened, because I never mentioned the incident again? Did you _hope_ that I had listened?

Well, as I'm sure you can guess by now…I didn't listen. I didn't stay away, I did get involved, and I did help her…more than once—on many occasions, to be honest.

Perhaps that was where our friendship started, in our quest to finding advertisements for a friend. I certainly got to know her better during that time. I learned she shared similar passions to my own when it came to issues of justice and politics. I learned that she had a voracious mind, eager to gobble up as much information as possible on so many different issues and causes. I learned that she and I had far more in common than we had with people within our stations…

If you haven't guessed by now…Lady Sybil, his Lordship's youngest daughter…is my suffragette.

…No doubt you're throwing every kind of curse under the sun and moon at me right now.

I know, I know, after all the long lectures I've given over the years about avoiding foolishness—this certainly is the most foolish thing anyone in our family has probably ever done.

Well, let me first put you at ease. I haven't been so foolish as to "act" on anything. I am being careful, despite what you may think of me right now. She doesn't know my feelings, and I haven't said anything to anyone here about them. But you must also know that she is completely innocent; she has not "led me on", she has not toyed with me or tried to manipulate me. She's not that kind of woman. As far as she knows…we are simply, friends. And for now, I'm content with that.

Although I know that even a friendship between the two of us is forbidden. But don't ask me to stop…because I can't. I can't stop being her friend any more than I can stop breathing. And as for loving her…well, I'm lost beyond all hope there, too. I know you think I'm stupid…and maybe you're right; but I would rather be stupid and love her from afar…than be smart, and turn my back and never see her face again. So please, Martin…don't try to dissuade me. I know my heart, and I know what's best for me, even if that doesn't seem right to you, or the rest of the bloody world.

Now, hopefully you understand why I said what I said about you and your lovely Rachel. I know there are barriers between you both, but hopefully you can see how tiny they are compared to the walls I must deal with. And with all this talk about war, I hope that you also see and understand how brief and precious life really is. Because none of us are invincible. Even if we never see a battlefield, we truly are only allotted so many years. Isn't it better to live those years happily, and fully, than to sit idly by and wonder what our lives _could_ have been like?

I know it's a great deal to take in. And I understand if you're angry with me. I probably would be too, if I were in your shoes. But I've always told you how you're more like a brother to me than a cousin, and I couldn't stand keeping this secret from you. So I hope, someday, that you'll forgive me. And…while I know it's a lot to consider, especially right now…I also hope that later this month, you and I can meet face to face. Unless otherwise instructed, I still have that holiday time due to me, and I would still, very much, like to take that time visiting Devon. If you'll see me, of course.

I know that I can trust you with this, Martin. You're the first and only person that I've told. I know that I can trust you to keep this to yourself, and not say anything to anyone. And I thank you for that, from the bottom of my heart.

I hope and pray to hear from you soon, even if it's a dismissal.

I pray for your health and happiness; God bless you.

-Tom

**~End of Volume I~**

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for reading! Please let me know your thoughts, I love hearing from readers and it really helps push and motivate me in writing. I would also love to hear any hopes or wishes for the next volume, which I plan to start writing in the upcoming week!<em>

_Right now, Volume II will be a continuation of *this* present story (meaning, I won't be writing a separate story, so you can stay tuned to this one for future updates!) I will also begin writing my companion piece, which I am calling Love's Journey: Stepping Stones over the next few weeks. This piece will specifically explore the "missing years" of the Sybil/Branson story: late 1914 to early 1916. It will not be necessary to read it in order to enjoy Volume II of Love's Journey, but rather, like "Lion King 1 1/2", a fun "in betweenquel". I'll be sure to announce when I post the first chapter, within this story._

_Thank you again for your support and readership! I hope you have enjoyed the first volume as much as I have in writing it, and I hope you will continue to read and enjoy the second volume. Thanks again!_


	41. Sybil's Diary XII

_...AND NOW, we move onto the events of "Downton Abbey: Series Two". Some of the things mentioned in this chapter will be fleshed out further when I write the companion piece, which I hope to have the first chapter out by early next week. Once again, as I did with Volume I, I rewatched the second series to try and get as many details as possible about what all is happening in the lives of our characters and the household. However, I am not perfect, so if I left something out or made a mistake, I ask forgiveness. _

_THANK YOU again for all the wonderful feedback and readeship to this story. I can't believe that only 3 months ago, I started writing this thing, and that's grown to be what it is now. I am very excited about tackling Series 2 in this second volume, which I can only see as being quite "epic". I hope you enjoy and please continue to share your thoughts! I appreciate all your comments!_

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><p><strong>Volume II, Part I<strong>

_Late Autumn & Early Winter 1916_

**Chapter Forty-One**

November 3, 1916

"Sometimes…it feels that all the men I ever danced with are dead…"

Those are the words I said to Cousin Isobel today. The reason was I had received yet another horrible letter, this time from my friend Imogen, telling me of Tom Bellasis' death.

Oh Tom…

I thought I had shed all my tears, but it appears I was wrong. I will do my best to write, even though my hand is somewhat shaky.

The thing I remember the most about Tom is—I mean, was...his wonderful ability to make me laugh. Every time an older gentleman stands to make some sort of toast or speech, I can't help but begin to giggle. It certainly has earned me several sharp looks from Mama and Granny over the last year. I remember it as if it happened just a week ago; going to London to Imogen's ball, because she was so afraid with the war going on, that no one would come. It was a small affair, I recall; certainly not as big as Mary or Edith's, or even my own ball. A great number of the people there were all friends of Imogen's parents, which meant they were all the _same age_ as Imogen's parents. There were hardly any young people, and certainly very few gentlemen under the age of thirty-five. But Tom, Imogen's cousin, was there, looking very dashing and distinguished in his regimentals. He was not only handsome, but also polite and attentive, fetching us lemonade and offering to "show us off" on the dance floor so we would not be "doomed" to the fate of being a wallflower.

I remember giggling, finding him very humorous. And then, when Imogen's uncle rose on his rickety legs to make a speech, I remember glancing at Tom and seeing him make a few faces. I had to clamp my hand over my mouth so as not to make a scene! It didn't help that the speech lasted for a good twenty minutes, starting out with congratulations for Imogen's presentation, and then turning an entirely different direction, praising the courage of young, British soldiers, fighting against the lions of injustice. How I managed to make it through that entire speech without causing a scene…I'm not sure. But despite the horrible madness that filled the newspapers every morning…I was able to forget and simply revel in the joy of laughing and being young.

I saw him a few other times after Imogen's ball, while in London, and then once last summer, when he visited her and her family before leaving for France. He had shared with me that he hoped to make something of himself, and while he wasn't sure what that was, he hoped that maybe the war would help him discover it. I always thought that he would get along famously with Branson: the Two Tom's! I always believed that if they had had the opportunity, they would become fast friends, especially after I learned how similar they were in political thinking. I don't know if Tom Bellasis would ever call himself a Socialist, but a great many of his opinions seemed to lean that way.

…

…

It's not fair. It's not right, that a man who had…who had so much to offer this world…that his life could just be…_taken_ like that.

He joins a tragic and growing list: Mr. Ewing, Mr. Pembrooke, Viscount Meredith's son, and so many others; truly, it does seem that all the men I have ever danced with…are dead.

…

I _have_ to do something. I can't, I just…I can't continue living like some…some ignorant debutant, waiting for the war to end so life can go on as it always had before. No, I refuse to just…sit idly by! And the charity work I've done in the past, it's just…it's not enough, not anymore. I need something else, something that feels…like _I_ am making a difference. I want to—I _need_ to help, properly.

If receiving Imogen's letter hadn't convinced me, listening to Mama and Papa this morning certainly would have. Papa keeps hoping that the army will send for him and offer him some sort of post. Ever since the Somme began, he's been wearing his uniform practically every day. Mama feels that she's doing her part by rising early and having breakfast with us in the dining room. Honestly...

And then, hearing them squabble because Papa wants to return to active service, and listening to the "joy" that filled his voice because he received some sort of letter by some general, giving him "hope" that there is a place for him…oh, if I hadn't been consumed by Imogen's letter in that moment, I would have just screamed! I know Papa wants what I want, to make a difference, but…I'm starting to see what Branson said once, not long after the war started. "There is no glory in war, milady; only tragedy and death."

I couldn't sit there and explain why I was so upset, I had to get out of that room, out of that house! So I walked—I don't know how long exactly—around the gardens, thinking of Tom, thinking of all the brave soldiers whose lives were cut short far too soon, and inside, my mind and heart were screaming with frustration. I thought about going to see Branson, telling him my thoughts…but chose against it. Things have…changed, between the two of us. We still talk now and then, but…it's not like before. And even though I always believed he and Tom Bellasis would get along—I…I…I doubt that Branson, seeing me cry over the death of another man…would share my sympathies. Perhaps I'm judging him too harshly? I don't know…but whatever the answer, I didn't go to him.

I eventually wandered back to the house, and saw Cousin Isobel. That's when I told her what I had been thinking, about how…how angry I was—still am, to be honest—about everything that's happening, and how I need to do something, more than sell programs and post fliers about the benefit concert. I told her that I want to do _real_ work.

And that was when she told me the most wonderful thing.

…I'm smiling now, at the memory. There are still tears that stain my cheeks, but I can feel the corners of my mouth lift as I recall what she told me.

She asked if I had ever given thought to being an auxiliary nurse. I hadn't, but I was immediately interested. She told me there was a training college, in York, and that she could get me into a course. She then mentioned there would be several things I would need to do, such as learn how to more or less "take care of myself". In other words, learn how to fold sheets and make beds, possibly launder clothing, and scrub floors. It sounds so silly…and so embarrassing, when I think about the fact that these are things that…well, that "normal" people know how to do, but that I don't! She even advised that I learn a few cooking tips from Mrs. Patmore. Oh Lord, there's an embarrassing story…

After Cousin Isobel's wonderful suggestion, I quickly went down to the kitchens, and asked Mrs. Patmore if I could speak to her when she was finished preparing lunch. I returned later that afternoon, and told her what Cousin Isobel had told me, that I just needed to learn a few basics, such as boiling an egg or making tea. There were only three other kitchen maids in the room at that time, but they all laughed when I revealed I didn't even know how to make tea! Yes, it is a joke…but I don't _want_ to be a joke anymore. Thankfully, she agreed…but then, I made a right…well, as Branson would say, "arse" of myself, by taking the tea kettle and attempting to fill it with water, only to spray half of it _all over_ myself and the floor! And just after I made some cheeky comment about "_everybody_ knows how to fill a kettle!"

Still, despite all that…I'm so grateful to Cousin Isobel, and perhaps, for the first time since this awful war started…I feel…hope.

And we all need to feel some kind of hope right now.

Mary returned from London today. She mentioned a gentleman, Sir Richard Carlisle. He runs a great deal of London's newspapers, and no doubt I've read a few. She said she was eager to introduce him to all of us. I can't help but wonder if part of her eagerness has to do with seeing Cousin Matthew tonight…with his fiancée.

While I was walking outside, Cousin Isobel was visiting Mama and Papa, telling them that Matthew was on leave and would be visiting her, with the sole intention of introducing her to his fiancée, Miss Lavinia Swire. It's been a very long time since Matthew has visited Downton. In fact, I don't think he's stepped inside the house since…heavens, over a year, perhaps? He enlisted early, which certainly has kept him busy, but…I know, just as everyone else I'm sure knows, that the true reason for his absence is that he has been avoiding Mary. I think that's also true for her; she goes to London to visit Aunt Rosamond so much more frequently than before the war.

Papa insisted that Matthew bring Miss Swire to tonight's concert, and that they stay for dinner. To say that things were a little…awkward…is an understatement. However, I must agree with Mama, Lavinia does seem rather lovely, and one cannot admire the bravery she displayed by coming here and facing all of us…especially Granny. Still, I kept looking down the table at Mary and Matthew, who were sitting side by side, and suddenly I remembered all those dinners when they sat next to each other and laughed and flirted and it seemed so obvious that they were meant to be together.

They did not flirt, nor did they laugh tonight…but there was still this…aura, about them. Or was that my imagination? Is it truly too late? Are we only given one chance at happiness? Are we only destined for one person? I mean, Matthew seems happy with Lavinia—and Mary speaks of Sir Richard Carlisle very fondly, but…is it possible to feel that sort of passion with someone else so easily? Did they wait too long? I mean, if nothing's happened by now, then it must not be meant to be—not that I truly believe in "fate" or "destiny", but if he truly loved her, he would have said something by now, correct? He would have done something, he wouldn't have waited all these years, causing all sorts of questions to pop in my head and making me second guess myself and wonder what my feelings really mean, he would have given me some sort of sign! He would have—

…

…

…

I…I meant, Mary and Matthew, of course.

…

Edith is coming along with her driving. She said that Branson believes she's truly gotten a hang of it and that's she's ready for the road, to which Papa disagreed. While I haven't spoken to Branson about Edith's driving…I have seen the two of them…and I've seen how white his knuckles are as he grips the car door while she makes a turn around a corner. I think I must concur with Papa.

Oh Edith. I must confess, I found several things she said tonight to be in very poor taste. While I wasn't surprised that she leapt at the opportunity to tell Mary about Matthew's engagement, I was shocked by her ill-humored remark about how "horrid it was that heroes were dying on the battlefield, while other men stayed home and did nothing." Was she aware that William was standing a few feet from her? Did she see the look on his face when those horrible women gave him that white feather at tonight's concert? But the remark that she made that truly had my blood boiling was when she said something about "who knows how much longer we'll have a chauffeur".

Is Edith that desperate to take Branson's job? From the way she speaks, it's almost as if she's _hoping_ he'll be called up! Alright…I know that I'm taking her comment the wrong way. In truth, she's being very practical. But…I don't want to be practical about such things. The thought of Branson going to the front terrifies me more than anything. I…I don't know how I would handle receiving _that_ letter…

No, no, I can't think like that. Conscription has been in existence since January, and he still hasn't received a letter. So perhaps he won't receive one at all?

…Or am I simply fooling myself? Am I being selfish? What about all those other brave men who have died? I've shed my tears for them…but I didn't feel this sort of fear for them. I don't even think I feel this sort of fear for Matthew…

Oh God, help me. Please…

All I can do is cling to the hope that Isobel has given me. A course has opened up in York, I will be able to go and train to be a nurse and do something proper at last! Of course…it will be very soon; this Friday, to be exact. I'm both excited…and terrified.

There's so much to do—I need to pack, I need to prepare and spend a great deal of my time with either Anna or Mrs. Patmore tomorrow, I need to continue to convince Mama and Papa that this _is_ the right thing to do…and…I will need to tell Branson. In fact, that may be the first thing I need to do tomorrow…

Surely he'll support me on this? Will he be proud of me? Will he laugh when I tell him about what happened in the kitchen today with the kettle? Will he care at all? Does he care?

Why am I…? Oh for heaven's sake, I'm being so…

…

…

I can't believe I've written five pages tonight! And I'm almost about to start a sixth! So I will end this entry now, and say a prayer for all the fallen heroes. And maybe God can provide me with a little guidance, as well as some courage? Because I truly need it with everything that is to come…


	42. Branson's Journal II

_Ok, I need to apologize right now, because I am guilty of plugging a few "mysteries" in this chapter, about incidents that may have happened between the August 1914 Garden Party and the present. I promise to tackle those mysteries in the companion piece, but...I just couldn't help myself! I wanted to wet the appetite! So I hope you will forgive me for the shameless self-promotion, and still enjoy this chapter. _

_Thanks again for all who read, subscribe, and are kind enough to leave a comment. Please, if you are able, please let me know what you think! It's always wonderful to hear from readers and know their thoughts! Ok, enough chit-chat...ENJOY!_

* * *

><p> <strong>Chapter Forty-Two<strong>

November 3, 1916

So I'm more or less giving in to the fact that I haven't been using this journal for the intention to which it was given. Two years ago, when Sybil returned from London and gave this to me, she said it was so I could begin putting my thoughts and ideas down on paper, because "all politicians need to start somewhere". And every so often, I do that; I review a book that I've read, or comment on an article I saw in the paper. But lately…and by lately, I admit, within the last year and a half…the commentary my journal has seen has very little to do with the politics of people and governments…and more with the politics of one's heart.

So here is my white flag of surrender—I hope you will understand, Lady Sybil, should you ever find out, and I hope you will not be disappointed. Of course, if she ever did see this thing and all my endless rambles about the color of her eyes and the touch of her hand…I think I would jump off the cliffs of Dover to save myself the embarrassment.

I saw her today, but not in the way she and I used to see each other. We still talk every so often, we still share our thoughts and ideas about books we've read or speeches we've heard…but it's not the same. Nothing has been the same really since…well, since the War started, I guess. Several moments stand out to me: her trip to London and the fight we had last summer, my coldness towards, well, towards everyone really, this past spring…and of course…I can't forget what _nearly_ happened at Christmas, last year. But it's easier to say that all of those incidents came into being because of the War, that it's the War's fault for our distance.

At least that's my cowardly answer.

I saw her today, roaming the gardens around the house. It was quite cool this morning, and had recently rained. While it made the air feel fresh and clean, it had a definite nip. My fingers were stiff and frozen after working on an engine, and I decided to leave the garage to get a hot cup of tea, and that was when I saw her. She had this sweater on, and while it looked thick, it didn't look nearly warm enough to keep out the November chill. But she didn't seem to notice, nor did she seem to notice the damp mud that coated the bottom edge of her skirt. Her face was looking downward…and every so often she would lift her hands, and I saw what looked like a crumpled letter. While I couldn't see her face directly…I could tell that she had been crying.

God…how it hurt to see her like that. My arms ached, just as they have in the past, with a want and need to go and hold her, to enfold her, to protect her from whatever it was that was causing her sorrow. I wanted call out to her, to ask her why she was upset, to reassure her that despite everything that had happened within the last year, she could still depend upon me, she could still trust me, and that I _am_ still her friend (even though I long to be so much more).

But I didn't. Coward that I am, I didn't do anything. I just watched her…watched her wipe her cheeks with the sleeves of her sweater, before she followed the path that would eventually lead her back towards the front of the house.

Lucky bastard. I can only assume that her letter was yet another announcement about some poor soul to whom she knew that had died on the battlefield. God forgive me…I'm actually jealous of a dead man. Jealous that whoever he was, he received such sweet sympathy from a beautiful angel—and at the same time, I hate him for causing her that grief. And I hate myself for being low enough to think such things. Still…I'll say a prayer on his behalf tonight, whoever he is.

William continues grousing about his father not allowing him to enlist. Good God in heaven, I thought he had gotten this out of his system! Shortly after war was declared, he asked around the Servant's Hall to find out if anyone was going down to the village to enlist. He even asked me. Mrs. Hughes was quick to tell him that he not only needed Lord Grantham's permission before doing so, but that he would also need to say something to his father. Mrs. Patmore, who perhaps is the closest person to sharing my thoughts and views on the War, pounced on that bit of information, and more or less shamed William into thinking about enlisting, when his poor father was still grieving after the loss of his wife. That shut William up on the subject, and he's said very little since…until news about the Somme began trickling in.

But I fear he'll become even more adamant after what happened tonight. Mrs. Crawley is doing whatever she can to help the Downton hospital, and a few weeks ago she convinced his Lordship to hold a benefit concert here, within the house. I hadn't planned on attending, after all when her Ladyship needed me to drive her back to the Dower House, she would send for me. But…after seeing Sybil this morning, seeing her grieve…God, I wanted to see her, see her and pray that this time, she would be smiling. So I stood in the back, out of sight, but could just see the back of her lovely head while the concert began. Then…at some point, two women rose and began passing something out to the men. I couldn't tell what it was at first…but then I saw one of the women looking down at William and holding the object to him. And that was when I realized it was a white feather, a symbol of shame and cowardice.

I've dealt with people like this in the past, people who think that if they guilt and shame you, you'll not only come around to their way of thinking, but you'll be willing do whatever they say. Idiots. If anything, it makes me less and less inclined to listen to them, as well as makes me want to take whatever it is they're using to "shame" me, and wear it as a badge of honor; to twist their symbol of guilt into something that shows they have no power over me. When the ladies left, they passed by me and handed me one of their feathers. I couldn't help but laugh at their foolishness, and I couldn't help but say something cheeky: "I'm in uniform".

But William is not like me. Nor does he have the experience that I've had in dealing with such people. He was completely caught off guard, and even after his Lordship rose and roared at the two women, calling _them_ cowards and demanding that they leave at once…poor William still looked stricken with embarrassment. Which means he will be pressing the issue even further now, I'm afraid. I think at this point, Daisy may be the only one who can get him to see reason.

Thank God Bates is back. It will be good having someone with some sense back in the house. I drove to the station to pick up Lady Mary, and was delighted to see Bates walking beside her. He's been in London these past few weeks, tending to his mother's funeral. Next to Anna, I may be the most pleased to have him back. I wonder what he'll make of Ethel, the new housemaid? We all joke that Gwen left a "curse" on Downton after she left; any housemaid that comes to fill in her place lasts only a few months, before leaving for some unexpected reason. I wonder how long Ethel will last? She's doing nothing to make herself popular, especially with the likes of Mrs. Patmore and Miss O'Brien. Still, I can't help but smile at her cheek, especially when she puts O'Brien in her place. And like me, she wants to be defined by more than just her position. I _could_ admire Ethel…if she weren't so peevish all the time.

But it is good to have Bates back. Ever since Gwen left, I feel that he's the closest person I can relate to here, amongst the servants. And I do feel I can trust him…even though I've yet to tell him about my feelings for Sybil.

Lady Edith wanted to take the car and drive to the station to pick up Lady Mary. Thank you Lord, for the intervention of the Dowager Countess! She called upon Lady Edith for something, which meant I was able to slip out without her noticing and drive to the station in peace as well as in one piece. I don't mean to say that Lady Edith is a bad driver, simply that…well, that she's just not a very good one. At least not yet. She does have potential, I will say that. And even though she can be quite stubborn, I must admit, I've come to like Lady Edith, or I think I understand her a little better than I used to. I can see bits of Sybil in her. During today's lesson, I made a joke about how one day she would put me out a job. Her reply was that the War was putting all men out of their jobs, including myself should the call arrive. I simply told her I would cross that bridge when I come to it.

But it is something that plagues my thoughts, every so often. I know what I _want_ to do, but I wonder if I _should_. I think about what it will mean for my family; will they see me as a hero? Or will they be shamed by my behavior? How will the others see me? Will they call me a coward? Or will they see bravery in my actions?

…How will Sybil see me? _Does_ she see me? Or am I beginning to blend in more and more with the background? Am I becoming an invisible fixture in her life?

Maybe I should try to talk to her, mention that I saw her today, and ask her why she was so upset? Or will that seem unfeeling? I don't want to cause her any further grief or pain, but…I'm starting to drive myself mad with all these questions. I overheard Daisy mention something about Sybil being in the kitchens this afternoon; it must have happened while I was fetching Lady Mary. Something about wanting Mrs. Patmore to give her some cooking tips. Why? Not that I object, but I wonder why she's asking this now? No doubt it has some sort of connection to the War; perhaps I can ask her about that? No doubt that's a safer question than bluntly asking whose name was in that letter that caused her to shed such tears.

…God help me, I'm _still_ jealous.

I need to do something, something needs to change; I can't stand this awkwardness between the two of us.

Sometimes I wish things could just go back to how they were before the War…

…But then, I remember the Garden Party, and the way her hand fit so perfectly into mine. And if I still had any doubts about my feelings, they were swept away by the gentle squeeze of her fingers. And then I remember the events that came later that year…and that spilled into the following, leading up to the present. And while there have been many instances that seemed to have tested our friendship, at the same time they have only strengthened my love for her—and I hope, God I hope, that in those instances…she's seen a glimpse of my heart.

But I'm still a coward, because I still haven't _told_ her how I feel.

Maybe I did deserve that white feather…

Alright, it's decided; if I see her tomorrow, be it walking in the garden or if she asks for the motor, I will say something.

Well…maybe not _that_, but I will certainly try to put an end to this silent war between us.

God knows it can't get any more awkward, can it?


	43. Longing for Old Times

_Long chapter warning! Sorry for the delay, but hopefully the extra length of this chapter makes up for it! Thank you again for all the wonderful comments and continued readership! AND if you aren't aware, the first chapter to my companion piece **Love's Journey: Stepping Stones** is up! Please check it out! More to come soon for both stories! _

_We're getting closer to that famous "proposal scene"...but this will begin to set the stage for it. Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think! THANKS!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Forty-Three<strong>

Sybil groaned, rubbing her lower back, and then massaging her right wrist, as she finally stepped outside, away from the kitchen. She had been leaning over the stove for a bulk of the afternoon, and only left when Mrs. Patmore told her she needed the space to begin preparations for the evening meal. At that point, Sybil was all too eager to oblige. She had never worked so hard in her life! Her back ached from bending, her wrist ached from stirring, her feet ached from standing…and her pride ached from Mrs. Patmore's playful criticisms. Perhaps at any other time, she wouldn't be bothered by the quips; but right now, she felt so embarrassed for her lack of knowledge and willpower when it came to something like making gravy, that she had nearly been stubborn enough to demand that she remain in the kitchen and actually help make dinner!

Nearly.

In the end, the aches in her body were what truly convinced her to leave. But how humiliating! And how disgusted she was by her own physical weakness. Daisy, who was such a little thing, did this and so much more every single day! Sybil doubted that the kitchen maid ever complained over something as trivial as standing over a hot stove and stirring gravy.

She groaned again and pushed the fallen strands of sweaty hair away from her brow. She just wanted to prove to…who exactly? Herself? The world? Perhaps both; she wanted to prove that yes, she was capable of _truly_ looking after herself, that she was so much more than some "little rich girl", whose only purpose it seemed was to wait until some peer of the realm asked for her hand in marriage.

_I won't always be a chauffeur…_

Branson's words from that car ride, years ago, rang loud and true in her mind. It had been their first conversation. He had given her pamphlets and spoke to her as an equal. He had encouraged her to be more than what others expected of her, and proceeded to tell her that he would as well. She remembered that car ride as if it were yesterday, and remembered writing in her diary that night about how inspired she had been by his declaration…

Branson.

Why was she being such a coward about this? She hadn't gone to him yet; she hadn't told him about her decision to go to York and train to be a nurse. Why? Not so long ago, this was the sort of thing where she would have run to his side, the first chance she had, to tell him her news! Why was she so afraid? Why was she holding back?

_Because things have changed between the two of you,_ a tiny, doubtful voice reminded her. _Things are not as they once were. _You_ are not as you once were…_

The sun was setting and Carson would soon be ringing the dressing gong. Even though it seemed so pointless, keeping up these ridiculous rituals when it came to mealtime, there was no persuading Carson otherwise. In his mind, standing by tradition was the best way to show the Germans they had no power over them.

Oh Carson. Despite his obsession with keeping things "just so", Sybil did admire the butler. He had always been kind to her, but she knew that Mary was his favorite. In his mind, Mary was the perfect lady, a shining example to all on how to behave and be proper. Mary would never engage in the things she did, such as attending political rallies or going door to door and canvasing for women's rights. Carson didn't understand her need to be involved; why couldn't she be like Mary or Edith, and be content to knit socks and mittens for the soldiers? She knew Carson didn't approve of her being down in the kitchens, despite Mrs. Hughes' defense. Several times he passed while she was stirring her pathetic pot of gravy, and each time he wore a scowl. She didn't mean to eavesdrop, but she did overhear him and Mrs. Hughes exchange a few heated words, sometimes about her being down there, and sometimes about Mary and Matthew. Oh to be a fly on the wall in the butler's pantry…

Carson wasn't the only one who disapproved. She had caught O'Brien's eye on a few occasions, and like the butler, she too was scowling. Sybil was well aware that O'Brien had spied on her conversation with Cousin Isobel the other day, and had snitched to her mother about going to York. No doubt the lady's maid was making it sound ten times worse, as if Sybil would be scrubbing floors and slopping pigs, instead of learning how to tend and care for wounded patients. How ironic that of all people, the one who should defend her decision, was her _grandmother!_ It was Granny who spoke to her father the other night, after the issue was brought up at dinner. It was Granny who soothed the worries of both her parents. Sybil would still have to do her own convincing, but thankfully her grandmother was laying down the framework for her.

The sounds of people hustling and bustling within the kitchens, making whatever preparations were needed for dinner, could be heard behind the closed door which Sybil stood by. It was amazing in a sense; this glimpse into the servant's world. Being downstairs amongst them, listening to their conversations, watching them work. The way they moved and spoke was very different to how they were upstairs. Upstairs, they were quiet and wore stone expressions that showed little emotion. Downstairs, they were animated, laughing and teasing one another, sometimes saying words that brought a blush to Sybil's cheek, followed by a mischievous grin to her mouth. Even though Mrs. Patmore's quips had caused her cheeks to burn red with embarrassment, Sybil did appreciate the fact that the cook had spoken to her as if she were another member of staff—as if the two of them were equals.

Just like the way she and Branson spoke to each other. Or had, once…

"This is ridiculous," Sybil muttered, pushing the fallen strands of hair out of her face and tucking them back behind her ears. She could steal a few minutes away, before she needed to be back in her room, changing for dinner. She looked down the gravel drive, towards the garage where light bulbs burned, and with a deep breath…set off in its direction.

It had been some time since she had last entered the garage with hopes to simply lose herself in a few hours, talking with him while he worked on an engine. They had spoken on various occasions since, but normally it was while he was driving her to and from someplace, not so much in the garage; not so much since the spring…

Sybil swallowed the nervous lump in her throat. _This is Branson, your friend, the man who you…trust,_ she told herself over and over. _Don't be silly, don't be silly, stop being silly!_

She pushed open the garage door with a little more force than necessary, causing poor Branson to jump from where he stood, or rather, leaned. She had been so lost in her own mantra, that she hadn't realized what she was doing…until she was standing there, in front of him…and at an utter loss on what to say.

"Milady?"

Sybil opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She had caught him completely unawares. He had been leaning against one of the cars, reading the servant's paper when she entered. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his tie undone and hanging limply around his neck; he wore no jacket…he wore no waistcoat! The buttons at the top of his shirt were undone, not only revealing his throat, but a bit of his chest as well! Sybil stared, her eyes taking in his (as Carson would say) "state of undress". Which was absolutely silly, of course; he wasn't naked for heaven's sake!

The heat that she had felt beginning to flood her cheeks came crashing like a tidal wave in that moment. "Oh!" The sound that escaped her throat sounded more like a squeak than an actual word. Like a silly schoolgirl, she turned her back on him, her hands flying to her face as if the cool sweat that pooled her palms would be enough to keep the blush at bay. "I…I'm sorry!" she apologized, hating how high-pitched her voice had become; so much for her "don't be silly" mantra.

"It's alright," Branson reassured, his own voice sounding a little strained as well. She could hear what sounded like buttons snapping and the rustling of clothing. She caught his reflection in one of the garage windows, and she watched as he turned his back to slip on his waistcoat…and how she could see the ripple of the muscles in his back…and the fabric settle on the broad width of his shoulders…

_GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF!_

"I…I didn't mean…if I had known…" what? If she had known he wasn't wearing a jacket, waistcoat, or that his shirt was somewhat unbuttoned, she wouldn't have come crashing through the door?

"No need to apologize, milady," Branson reassured again. "I um…I'm decent."

Sybil could just die from the embarrassment.

She took another deep breath and then turned around, forcing her eyes to stay locked with his and telling her cheeks over and over to stop blushing.

"I must say, this is a pleasant surprise," he murmured, an awkward but genuine smile spreading across his face. It was clear he was trying to spare them both the embarrassment of the moment.

Sybil felt her insides melt at that smile, and she couldn't help but return it. "Well…I was in the neighborhood," she lightly joked, grateful for the sound of his warm, deep chuckle. _How I've missed this…_

"Indeed," Branson grinned, stuffing his hands inside his pockets, a casual gesture that Sybil always loved. It reminded her of how things used to be, of how easy it was to simply be…_herself_, with him. "From what I understand, you seem to be visiting my 'neighborhood' quite a bit," he teased. "Or least part of it," he gestured towards the kitchens.

Sybil nodded her head, pushing one of the fallen strands of hair away from her face. "Yes, well…I was surprised I didn't see you there." Her heart was warming to the familiar humor they were exchanging, and she couldn't help but straighten her spine and put on a haughty air as she had done in the past, when joking with him. "I was fully prepared to ward you off with Mrs. Patmore's rolling pin, if you tried to unnerve me while stirring gravy."

"Gravy?" Branson made a face. "So _that_ was what I smelled? And I thought I had spilt a can of motor oil somewhere around here!"

Sybil gaped at him, and then launched herself forward, her fist making contact with his chest as he laughed at her stunned, red face. "My gravy wasn't _that_ bad!" she defended, which only caused him to laugh some more. "Oh you think you're so funny and clever, don't you?" she poked her tongue out at him then, before giving in to her own fit of giggles. Indeed, she had missed _this_ very much…

Eventually their laughter died down, but their smiles remained long afterward. "Why haven't I seen you in the kitchens?" she asked, before moving towards the workbench to sit in what she had long since considered "her spot".

"Been busy," he answered. "Mainly with teaching Lady Edith. She's coming along, mind you!" he grinned. "Still hasn't quite grasped the relationship between the clutch and the gas, but at least she understands how to use the brake."

Sybil giggled, remembering all those times she had seen Branson gripping the sides of the car while Edith made very wide, and rather fast turns, around the driveway of the house. "Well, that's very important."

"You're telling me!" Branson laughed. "But I did hear, both yesterday and this morning, how Mrs. Patmore is giving you some cooking lessons?"

Sybil nodded her head. "Yes, she's been very kind in taking some time out of her busy schedule to teach me a few basics." She was looking down at her shoes, feeling his eyes bore into her, feeling the question that was lurking in their blue-green depths. Naturally he wanted to know _why_ she was receiving lessons…and wasn't that the reason she had come to the garage in the first place? To tell him her plans? To let him know that…she would be leaving soon?

She lifted her eyes and felt her nervousness take hold once more. He was looking at her with what could only be the same anxiety she was feeling. "I…you see, there's a reason…to why Mrs. Patmore is teaching me…"

Branson nodded his head and attempted to smile. "Oh dear; first one Crawley daughter becomes a chauffeur, then another becomes a cook. Whose job will Lady Mary be taking?"

It was a gentle tease, a joke designed to relieve some of the tension that had suddenly filled the garage, but Sybil was finding it difficult to laugh, let alone smile. "I…I received a letter yesterday…" she explained, feeling that perhaps it was best to start from the beginning.

Once again, Branson nodded his head. "I know," he murmured. "I saw you…walking the garden path," he paused before adding, "You looked very upset."

They held one another's gazes for a brief moment, and then Sybil broke it by looking down at her hands, which were gripping the edges of her skirt. "I received word that…that a friend of mine, was…was killed, in the Somme."

She glanced up through her lashes at Branson, and noticed him stiffen at first, but then saw how his eyes filled with sympathy…as well as another emotion she couldn't quite read, but one that looked both troubled and sad. "I'm very sorry to hear that, milady."

Sybil nodded her head and continued, not wanting to dwell on the sad memory. "So many...so many men have died, so many men have given their lives…and…and I just…" she paused then, realizing something hot and wet was trickling down her cheeks. Good Lord, was she crying? No, no, this was not how she wanted it to go! She wanted to tell him that she was going to be doing something, something worthwhile, something that would make him proud! She wanted it to be like old times, where they would laugh and dream and scheme together, like the close friends that they were. She didn't want her emotions to get the better of her; she didn't want to second guess herself all the time, whenever she was around him.

She didn't want her heart to be confused anymore…

"I…I'm sorry," she quickly apologized, digging into the pocket of her skirt, desperately trying to find a handkerchief, trying to get a hold on her emotions, which seemed to be running ramped at the moment. The more she told herself to stop crying, the harder the tears fell. "Oh, where is the bloody thing?" she cursed, feeling utterly mortified as she searched for the handkerchief.

Branson, who had been standing stock still at first, looking both bewildered and pained at her sudden emotional display, quickly approached, kneeling before her and offering her his own handkerchief. "Here, milady," he murmured gently, handing her the tiny white cloth.

Sybil looked at him, his face level with hers now, and gratefully accepted the handkerchief. It was a kind gesture, the sort any decent man would offer in that moment; but for some reason, it meant far more to her, coming from Branson. "Thank you," she whispered, before dabbing her eyes and wiping her cheeks. "Oh Lord, this is so embarrassing," she muttered, before blowing her nose.

Branson shook his head. "Don't be, please," he said with a gentle smile. It was one filled with sympathy and understanding. "Mourning the loss of anyone should never be embarrassing, and I would certainly never judge a person for doing so."

Sybil looked up from the handkerchief and felt another wave of warmth flood her body. How like Branson to say something like that, something that was soothing, as well as reminding her that they were equals; at least within the walls of the garage. She couldn't help but smile, which only made his smile broaden. She began to return the handkerchief to him, but he shook his head. "You keep it, milady." She nodded her head in thanks…and only seemed to realize then how close they were. He was still kneeling in front of her, one hand outstretched and gripping the bench on which she was sitting to balance himself. He was so close…his face only seemed to be a few inches away from hers…

"Thank you," she quickly answered, breaking her eyes from his and practically leaping to her feet. The suddenness of the gesture nearly caused poor Branson to tumble backwards, but he righted himself and also rose, murmuring a soft "your welcome" under his breath, before taking several steps away from her.

No more delays; she needed to tell him everything, right now.

Well…maybe not _everything_…but that wasn't even an option.

"The truth is, I feel utterly useless," she explained.

Branson's brow furrowed. "Useless?"

Sybil nodded her head. "I need to do something; something where _I_ am making a difference."

For a moment, he simply stared at her, his face contorted in both confusion and surprise. "But milady…you already do so much—"

"Do I?" she interrupted. "I attend charity events, donate money when I can, post fliers, and knit the occasional pair of socks," she sighed in frustration. "My pity to the poor soldier stuck with those."

Branson shook his head. "You're not useless, milady; can't you see that what you're doing is helping—"

"It's not enough," Sybil interrupted again. "I need to be doing _real_ work, Branson; not the kind of work that is expected of someone in my place, but work that truly bears positive fruit, if you will." Her eyes were locked with his, hoping he could see her determination, as well as understand her need to be doing this.

Silence fell between them then, and it felt painfully awkward. Sybil wondered what he was thinking, as she shifted uncomfortably on her sore feet. The confusion he had been wearing earlier was completely gone, replaced by surprise and something else. While his gaze remained steady, he opened his mouth a few times as if to say something, only to shut it before any words formed. Was he upset? Surely he wasn't like Carson or O'Brien and looked upon her explanation with disapproval. Did he truly understand what she was saying? She hadn't told him her decision to become a nurse, but she had made it quite clear that she would be doing _something_ resembling a real job.

He opened his mouth a third time and still no sound came out. Sybil was afraid he was going to close it again, and continue this painfully awkward cycle, but just before he did, he finally managed to say, "What will you do?"

Sybil couldn't help but sigh with relief, but she quickly straightened her spine and answered his question. "Cousin Isobel suggested that I consider training to become an auxiliary nurse."

"A nurse?" Branson repeated, his eyes widening with surprise.

Sybil nodded her head, and a smile began curling at her lips. The excitement she had felt upon first hearing the suggestion began bubbling up once more. "Yes, she thinks I would be very good. And it cannot be denied that as a nurse, I can help."

Branson nodded his head, but his mind seemed to be a million miles away…

Sybil could feel her smile beginning to fade. She had hoped, once the initial shock had passed, that he would join in her excitement; that he would grin and tease her about how she "got to have all the fun", just as he had teased her years ago, when she and Gwen snuck out to Malton for Gwen's interview.

Instead, he stepped away from her, and began pacing slightly. "So…that's why you've been in the kitchens…" he finally said, after another uncomfortable moment of silence.

Sybil swallowed the lump in her throat and began repeating everything Isobel had told her. "Yes. Cousin Isobel thinks it would be wise if I know how to…well, how to 'take care of myself', so to speak. Such as making my own bed or scrubbing a floor."

"Or cooking a pot of gravy," he added.

Sybil looked up at him and a tiny wave of relief washed over her as she saw a teasing twinkle in his eyes. "Exactly," she whispered, a small grin returning to her face.

Branson smiled back, although his looked a little strained. "So…what else will you need to do?"

"Well," Sybil began. "There's a training college in York—"

"York?" Branson interrupted, his body frozen and his eyes wide with shock.

"Y-yes," Sybil stammered, unsure exactly how to take his reaction. "Cousin Isobel said she could get me on a course, and as a matter of fact, one just opened up."

Branson simply stared at her a moment longer, before resuming his pacing from earlier. "How…how long will you be in York?" he finally managed to ask.

"Two months," she answered, her voice so low it could have been a whisper. When Isobel had told her the length of the course, it didn't sound so bad. In fact, Sybil's first thought was utter bewilderment; there was so much to learn—how could they possibly teach her everything she would need to know about being a nurse in such a short period of time?

But now, standing here and telling Branson how long her time away from Downton would be…good God, it sounded like an eternity.

Branson stared at her, his mouth open as it had been before, but no sound was coming from it. He quickly closed it, and then forced a smile. "Well," he finally managed to say, "That's not so bad, is it?" Was it her imagination? Or did his voice sound strained? She recalled something her father had said about how true Englishmen always put a "stiff upper lip" when facing harrowing news. Was that what Branson was doing? _Oh don't be silly; you give yourself far too much credit if you think he's putting on a façade for you because you're going away. Besides, he's Irish._

"When do you start?"

Sybil looked up at him and felt a painful weight press down over her heart. "Friday," she answered.

Branson looked at her, his face unreadable. "_This_ Friday?"

Sybil nodded her head, but she couldn't look at him. It was now her turn to pace back and forth and she did so, keeping her eyes on the ground. "It is all very sudden, I know," she murmured. "I just…after receiving that letter, I wanted to…I just…"

"Needed to do something," he answered, echoing her thoughts exactly.

Sybil lifted her eyes briefly and was momentarily stunned by just how deep the colors of his eyes were, as they penetrated hers. "Yes," she whispered. "But I've already told you that," she lowered her eyes and her pacing increased. "I ran into Cousin Isobel before she left, and told her about…well, about everything that I just told you, about how useless I felt, and that was when she suggested nursing, and told me about the college. And then last night at dinner, she told me she had learned that a spot had opened at the college, but if I wanted to take it I would have to act quickly, and leave this Friday, and I know it's all happening so fast, but…but this is my chance!" she stopped pacing and looked at him, her breath rising and falling rapidly, her heart racing, and her eyes searching his, desperate for understanding.

He simply stood there, his hands in his pockets, his gaze calm and steady. What was he thinking? She couldn't read him! Oh this wasn't going well at all; certainly not the way she had hoped or imagined. Had the two of them changed that much? She missed her friend; she missed the man she had schemed with, who had helped her look up advertisements, who she had written secret letters to while in London, who she could spend hours upon hours, talking about anything that came to her mind—

"Then you must seize it."

Sybil, who had been lost in her worries and thoughts, came crashing back to reality at the words he had spoken. "W-w-what?" she stammered, not quite sure what he had said.

"You said this is your chance," he explained. "You said this was your chance to…to make a difference. To do something that will actually help others…" his eyes held hers and a small smile played at the corners of his mouth. "So if this is your chance to do those things…then you must seize it."

A long, shaky breath left her chest then. He _did_ understand.

Sybil could feel the tears welling up once more; damn her emotions. Oh but she didn't care, she was just so relieved and so happy that he understood! If she weren't careful, he would be in danger of her throwing her arms around him and hugging him tight and kissing—

A hot blush flooded her cheeks, and she quickly looked away.

"Thank you," she murmured, carefully lifting her eyes to meet his once she felt she had both her emotions…and her thoughts…under control.

Branson's smile was tender, and it made her insides melt again. "I don't know why you're thanking me, but you are most welcome, milady," he said with a courteous bow, which had the desired effect of making her giggle.

"I'm thanking you because…well…no one has ever really understood me, except you," she explained. "Mary and Edith don't really know what to make of my decision; Papa hasn't said much, but I believe his thoughts are close to Mama's, which lie somewhere between disapproval and reluctant acceptance. I know Carson is against it, judging from the scowls he wore whenever he saw me in the kitchens…and of all the people who do seem to approve, it's Granny! But I think she sees it more as something along the lines of being 'fashionable', rather than a service to others."

Branson couldn't help but chuckle at her descriptions. "Well…I'm honored, milady. I always believed you could be or do anything you set your mind to…" He held her gaze then…and took a step towards her, and Sybil swore her heart skipped a beat. "And indeed, you are most welcome."

Even if she wanted to turn away to hide the blush she could feel creeping up her neck and spreading across her face, she didn't dare. Her eyes were lost in his once again, and memories of intimate conversations—sometimes heated, sometimes revealing—from the previous year, returned with a full force.

"Branson…"

The way she spoke his name was strange. There was a warning tone to it, mainly because she knew, despite all her beliefs on reform and equality, she was supposed to behave in a specific manner. But she couldn't deny there was another tone as well…one that was full of question, wondering if he could put an end to the confusing demands her heart kept insisting on asking.

He smiled, and whispered something to himself under his breath, so soft she was unable to hear. He took a step back and once again stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Are you nervous?"

Sybil knew she should be grateful that he had taken that step back, but deep down she was already missing the intimacy. "Yes, actually," she replied. She put on a smile and proceeded to pretend that nothing had happened, which was true, nothing had happened…exactly. "I've never truly been away from home, well, never to a place where I didn't know anyone," she explained.

"You'll be making friends in no time," he reassured.

Her smile broadened. "I've always wondered what a university would be like. I am nervous, but…I must confess, I'm excited too!"

He laughed then, but it was warm and genuine. "There's the Sybil Crawley I know," he teased. "Fearless, like I've always said."

Sybil blushed then, not missing how informally and intimately he had said her name, but she chose not to bring attention to it. She had told him once that she liked it, and that still remained true.

Her gaze wandered to a window, and she took notice to how dark it had become. She should have been back ages ago; no doubt Anna or Ethel were wondering where she was, and she would not win favor with either of her parents if she kept them waiting. "I must go," she sighed. "But thank you, again, for…" she didn't quite know what to say, because there was a great deal she was thankful for. "For your understanding and encouragement."

"You are welcome, milady," he replied, with a slight bow of his head.

He stepped forward and held the door open for her, but just as she began to pass, she stopped and turned to him, her eyes suddenly wide and her voice urgent. "You will take me, won't you?"

Branson nearly lost his grip on the door. "W-w-what?" he stammered in confusion.

"On Friday…you will, I mean…you don't mind driving me, to York…do you?"

It occurred to her then, the two of them standing in that small doorway, just how close they were to one another; even closer than they had been earlier. She held her breath as she looked up at him, and she couldn't deny that her eyes were falling slightly, away from his…just a few inches down…to his waiting mouth…

"Of course," he managed to answer, his voice sounding a tad squeaky.

Sybil's eyes flew back to his. "You do mind?"

"What? No!" he shook his head. "No, no, you misunderstand; I mean, 'of course, I will take you'…to York," he added quickly, before turning his face away and swallowing a great gulp of cool, night air.

Sybil's smile was one full of relief. "Oh good," she sighed, gratefully. "Edith was asking earlier if she could drive me, but…" her voice trailed off and judging from the look on Branson's face, she knew he completely understood her misgivings. "I best be going," she groaned, before giving him one last smile of thankfulness, and finally (as well as somewhat reluctantly) turned and began walking back to the house.

"Milady!" he hissed. Sybil turned and lifted her eyebrows in question. "Perhaps I'll pop in tomorrow…in the kitchens; see what ghoulish thing Mrs. Patmore will have you concocting," he teased.

Sybil gave him a look and then lifted her nose in the air. "For your information, I'll be baking a cake. But with that attitude I don't know if I'll save you a piece." She poked her tongue out then, which had the desired effect of making him laugh, which only made her giggle, before saying goodnight and scurrying back towards the house as quickly as possible.

At last, he knew. She had told him and while he had been surprised, he had accepted her news and even gave her some encouragement. It hadn't exactly been like "old times" but she needed to accept the fact that it never would be again. When had things changed? She found herself trying, once again, to pinpoint when that had all happened. Was the War really to blame for it all? Or had it happened before then? Her face flushed as she remembered the Garden Party (she remembered that day as if it were yesterday). Was that when it started? Or was it even before then?

She shook her head and quickened her pace. Now was not the time to dwell on such things. Tomorrow she would be making a cake and the day after that, she would be traveling to York. There was still such a great deal to do, and she needed to concentrate all her time and attention on preparing for _this_ particular change to her life.

As for the questions her heart continued to ask, they would simply have to remain unanswered, probably indefinitely. Two years had passed, after all; if any answer were to come, it surely would have happened by now.


	44. Branson's Journal III

_Just a quick note; this particular chapter is set on "Guy Fawkes Night"; only reason is because the random date to which I chose for the earlier chapters led to this one (all we really know is that Sybil chose to go to Nursing School on a Tuesday, and had to leave for York on Friday of that same week, sometime in November). So for some reason, I chose to go with "early November" and randomly picked Nov. 3 for Chapter 41...and several days later, landed with Nov. 5. I just couldn't pass up not mentioning Guy Fawkes, so there you have it. But the show never mentions Guy Fawkes Night, it's just a random thing with my story. But I thought I should mention that, in case anyone was scratching their head and wondering if they missed something in the show. You didn't!_

_Thanks again for the wonderful feedback! I'm so glad people are enjoying this, and thanks also for the great feedback with my other story too! You asked for it, a Branson-focused chapter after the last one, you got it! Happy Reading!_

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><p><em><em>**Chapter Forty-Four**

November 5, 1916

"Remember, Remember, the Fifth of November…"

For England, it's Guy Fawkes Night. They had no bonfire, but Mrs. Patmore did make a special treat for the staff after dinner was finished, and several kitchen maids had made some masks which they wore, laughing and trying to spook one another, until Mrs. Hughes arrived to spook them into silence over the matter. Despite the War, the spirit of the night was still alive and well. Despite the War, they treated it as if it were simply another Fifth of November…

But I will remember this day for a different purpose.

I'm still in shock, to be honest…

She leaves tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I will drive her to York to attend that nursing school, and for two agonizing months, I will not see her face. Of course we've been parted before, but never this long. And each time…it becomes more and more excruciating.

It's not like it's forever; I'm sure she'll be home to visit now and then. Good God, it's only two months for heaven's sake!

…But the idea of waking up one morning…and knowing that she's not here, that I may not catch a glimpse of her, or hear her voice ringing down the hall or across the garden paths outside the garage…I can't begin to describe the agony.

I felt something yesterday, when she came to tell me her news. I felt…an urgency.

Things have not been the same between the two of us for quite some time, but when she visited me yesterday, I felt a surge of hope like I haven't felt in years, perhaps ever! I know I'm not imagining things; I know I saw…_something_…in her eyes. I've been waging my own war for years, always wondering if I should say something, always debating if I should take that leap of faith and offer her my heart plus everything else that I am. And each time I think I will do it, my doubts get the better of me.

But yesterday, with her standing there before me, telling me about her need to do more and make a difference in this world…I was once again inspired. My passionate Sybil; she has such a gift—is she even aware of that? She said this was her chance; if she didn't seize it now, then when? And I found myself asking that very same question…

This is _my_ chance. No more second-guessing. If I don't seize this opportunity…then when?

I've let my fear get the better of me each time. I've created so many excuses over the past few years: the timing isn't right, I need to make something of myself, I need to prove myself, I need to be absolutely sure she feels the same way I feel…

But how can I know unless…I take that leap?

There have been signs for months; I'm not wrong in thinking that, am I? No, there _have_ been signs. Going as far back as the Garden Party…maybe before then. Yes, even before then, I think. And yesterday, when she and I stood in the garage, only a few inches apart, so close that if I leaned in my mouth would find hers…

I'm not wrong! I know I'm not! She didn't just come and tell me that she was going to York as if it were a simple drive into Ripon; no, she told me as one who is also, dare I believe it, _feeling_ the same agony that I am feeling, at the thought of being parted from her. If she weren't, then why wait to tell me just before the end of the day? Why put it off? Why seem so nervous? We are friends and I thank God for that friendship every day, but…this is _more_. This is more than friendship, even deep, meaningful friendship.

I need to stop doubting, I need to take that leap of faith and…allow myself to hope and believe that somehow, yes…this beautiful, intelligent, wondrous woman…could love a git like me.

I saw her today, in the kitchens. I must have walked in and out of there at least a dozen times before I finally saw her. No doubt Mrs. Patmore was wondering why I needed so much tea, when I could perfectly make my own pot here. But it was worth it, because I will never forget the sight of her, her face tight with concentration and determination as she lifted her cake from the oven. It was such a small thing, but to Sybil it may as well have been a seven-tiered wedding cake! She was beaming so proudly, and when the cloth was removed she couldn't help but grin at Daisy and Mrs. Patmore and murmur an excited, "Ta da!" God…if I weren't already madly in love with her, I would have fallen head over heels in that moment. How tempting it was to move in, sweep my arms around her and lift her high, spin her around the room and laugh my congratulations at her accomplishment, before lowering her and kissing her senseless. I quickly left the kitchen before I caused such a scene.

I've thought this before, for a long, long time. Lady Sybil Crawley is not like other women. Every man thinks that about the woman he loves, but truly, she isn't like any other woman I know! She doesn't wait for change to just happen, she takes it as a responsibility to go out and bring change to the world! Whether it's canvassing for women's rights or taking a stand like this, and entering nursing school so she can help wounded soldiers…how can _any_ human being not be inspired or admire her? If I had lost my heart to Lady Mary, I wouldn't stand a chance. This is all it could ever be. And even though Lady Edith is not as rigid as her elder sister, I still doubt I could have my heart's desire if she were the woman I loved. But with Sybil…it's not just my imagination; I _know_ I have a chance. And not simply because she and I are good friends and have grown closer over the years, but because…because she's _Sybil!_ And Sybil Crawley is not the sort of person who will let the world tell her what to do! She believes in change, she's not afraid of it, and she believes in following her heart, as she is preparing to do now by going to York.

Yes, we have had our disagreements in the past, and we have shared an awkward moment or two…but…perhaps that's all because we _both_ feel the same way for each other?

I have seen far too much heartbreak in this place. Mr. Matthew is engaged to another woman. Lady Mary is pretending she doesn't care. Lady Edith still mourns the loss of her first love, Mr. Patrick—she told me about him one day during one of our lessons. William can't seem to make up his mind which he wants more: enlisting in the army, or having Daisy by his side. And Bates and Anna…

I saw Anna crying tonight, just outside the kitchens. I passed Bates, who didn't even glance my way, but he didn't have to; I saw the heartbreak written clearly across his face. His wife was here this morning, his wife who he's been trying to divorce for several years. I don't know the details; none of us do, only that he'll be leaving first thing tomorrow morning.

I don't want to join their ranks; I don't want to be one who wonders "what could have been" anymore. I know nothing immediate could happen, and I'm alright with that. I fully support her decision to go to school and become a nurse! I wouldn't dream of taking that from her. But I need to tell her how I feel…how she fills every waking thought and every sleeping dream. How my arms ache to hold her, to feel her body against my own. How my heart soars when I hear her laugh, and warms when I see her smile. How if I could, I would spend every hour of the day kissing her...

I want to make her smile, every day. I want to make her happy—I will do _anything_ to make her happy. I want to build a life with her, share a home with her, have a family with her, and grow old with her. And I don't mind waiting, truly I don't; I can be like my brother-in-law Sean, and wait, just as he did for Kathleen. What are months or years, when you love someone? And if she loves me, then I can do anything…

There. It's decided. Tomorrow, tomorrow I will tell her. It will be perfect; her Ladyship told me that she will be unable to attend the drive, so it will just be the two of us!

God, how I wish it was morning. I feel like a caged animal; do I dare fall asleep? I don't want my fear or doubt to get the better of me now, but if I don't get any rest, I'll be no good driving anyone anywhere tomorrow.

Tomorrow…

God give me strength.


	45. Mistakes and Lessons

_Long chapter alert! This chapter was tough to write, and I went through several scenerios in my mind as to how I wanted it to look. At the end of the day, I decided to go this route, and I hope you will like it as much as I did when finished with it. There's also a bit of Anna/Bates, for fans of that particular couple._

_One more note. I was inspired by Allen Leech's interview for the Radio Times, when he said "Branson hasn't had a drunken brawl in this...yet." Well Mr. Leech...behold. And that's all the spoilers I'm going to give for this. Thankyou again for the wonderful feedback and support! I hope you enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Forty-Five<strong>

It was late by the time he returned the car to the garage. Well past the dinner hour. He tried to be as silent as possible while he parked the car and turned off the engine—he even tip-toed as he climbed out of the car. But the second he had silently shut the driver's door, he was seized upon by a questioning housemaid.

A questioning _head_ housemaid.

"Mr. Branson, where on earth have you been?"

He winced at the shrill sound of her voice. Anna wasn't normally one to raise her voice, and she certainly had never raised it in his presence. But she was right now, although her tone sounded more distressed than upset. He also winced because his head throbbed.

"The trip took longer than expected," he muttered under his breath, doing his best to avoid her eyes.

"Longer than expected?" Anna questioned, clearly not buying his excuse. "It has never taken you more than an hour to drive to York, and you took Lady Sybil in the early part of the afternoon!"

He could feel her piercing glare, but he still refused to look at her. He only clutched the end of his hat and tilted it down to cover as much of his brow as possible. "What does it matter?" he grumbled. Why was she even there in the first place? Had Carson sent her? Was Mrs. Hughes using her hawk-like eyes, watching the drive to see if he returned, and the second upon seeing the headlights, ordered Anna to demand an explanation from him? "I'm back now and the car is fine. His Lordship knew I would be gone a bulk of the day, so he reassured me he wouldn't need the car at all, so why all the fuss?"

"Mr. Branson—" she was trying to sound stern and formidable, the way Mrs. Hughes could sound when she was in a foul mood, but in order to do that, she needed to sound less concerned. She kept trying to see his face, no doubt catching on to the fact that he was purposefully avoiding her. "Mr. Branson, please—why in heaven's name…?" she was growing more and more frustrated every time he turned away. "We thought that the car had been overturned! That some sort of accident occurred," she attempted to explain. "We've been creating excuses all day, to both Mr. Carson and his Lordship, to keep them from worrying—"

He really didn't want to hear it; he didn't want to hear any words that sounded remotely kind, not right now. What he wanted more than anything was to retreat to his cottage where he could be left alone to fester in his thoughts and weigh his options. So he tried to push past her, but she wasn't having any of it. Anna grabbed his arm and forced him to turn and face her…and that was when she gasped.

It was like all the air was being sucked out of the room. He tried to turn his face away, but her hands were at his neck, forcing him to face her, and he knew that if he didn't comply, he would have her chasing on his heels all the way back to his cottage, so with a groan, he looked at her, allowing her to get a good look at his bruised and bloody face.

"Good God!" she gasped, her dark eyes widening as she took in the sight of him. "How…what…?" She was struggling to put words to the millions of questions he could see flashing before her eyes, as well as to keep her voice from shrieking. _ "What happened?"_

Just over her head, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of the garage windows. He was a ghastly sight. Purple blotches covered his face, in particular his left eye, which had swollen to the point that it looked like he was perpetually squinting out of it. Dried blood caked the area around his nostrils, and his bottom lip was cut and swollen. Thankfully (and by some miracle) all of his teeth were still intact.

Anna stared up at him, utterly horrified. "This…this wasn't caused by some…accident, was it?"

The way she asked the question was almost as if she were pleading for him to tell her that yes, he had gotten into an accident, that despite the fact that the car was perfectly fine, it had rolled over, several times, with him still attached to the wheel.

Of course, that was wishful thinking.

Anna sighed, her shock and horror changing now to utter disappointment. "Oh Tom…"

What could he say? Branson simply tried to put on a humorous smile and muttered, somewhat playfully, "You should see the other man."

Anna did not return his smile, nor did she laugh. Instead, her disappointed frown only grew. "You got into a fight…"

It wasn't a question.

Branson shrugged his shoulders and removed his hat, throwing it into the car. "Are you going start badgering me like my mother, now?"

Anna's frown deepened. "Well it clearly seems that someone should," she retorted.

He shrugged out of his jacket and threw it into the car as well. He remembered at the time finding it amusing that he hadn't gotten any blood on his uniform. No stains to shame the grand "House of Crawley"! "If all you're going to do is reprimand me, then I bid you 'goodnight', Miss Smith," he muttered, pushing past her once more.

But once again, Anna was faster, and she grabbed his shoulder. "Mr. Branson, wait." The disappointment was gone from her voice, replaced once more by genuine concern. Branson sighed and turned back once more to look at her. He did consider Anna to be his friend, but by no means was he as close to her as he had been with Gwen, or as he thought he was with Bates. But he did like her, and in many ways she reminded him of his sister Kathleen, who he and his mother always thought was "the sensible one" out of the whole Branson bunch. "You'll need something to help the swelling go down," she murmured, taking in the extent of his cuts and bruises. "Come with me to the kitchens."

Branson shook his head. "I don't want anyone to see me."

Anna folded her arms in a disapproving manner. "You won't be fit to be seen for several days if you don't put something on your cuts right now!"

He knew she was right, but he still had no intention of walking through that door where Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes, or Mrs. Patmore and all of her staff could see him. He would be sacked on the spot, and right now, he wanted to leave Downton on his own terms…_if_ he left.

"Look," Anna sighed, reading his thoughts. "Why don't you stay here, and let me fetch you something."

He didn't want to be coddled, pitied, or questioned. When he was younger, boys wore bruises like badges of honor, a sign that they faced the fight head on, rather than running away. But he wasn't a boy anymore, and despite his stubbornness, he knew that he was no match for the head housemaid. "Alright," he muttered, sinking down onto the garage bench…and cringing as he remembered that this was where _she_ sat whenever she popped in to visit.

Anna nodded her head, as if she were satisfied with his answer. Without another word, she turned on her heel and hurried back to the house, leaving him to stew in his thoughts and once more, painfully reflect on the day's events.

_Fool_, his mind repeated for the millionth time. _Stupid, lovesick fool!_

He clenched his fists and closed his eyes, trying his hardest to keep his temper at bay; trying his hardest to keep the tears from coming.

Martin had been right; Martin had been right about everything. A harsh breath caught in his throat, and despite the cut on his lip, he bit it hard to keep the threatening sob from escaping.

_"I'm terribly flattered…"_

"Oh God…" he groaned, burying his head in his hands. God, how he _hated_ that word! He had never liked it before, or should he say, he had never liked the sentiment in which it was used; but that was before anyone had ever said it to _him_. Now, as one who received that message…he hated that word with a loathsome passion.

He should have stopped when she murmured his name.

Her tone had been one filled with warning, just as it had been the night she came to tell him she was going to York. But then it seemed playful; nothing serious, as it had been today. But she had warned him; without saying the exact words, she was telling him to stop making a complete arse of himself. But did he listen? No. Instead, he let his heart overflow and run ramped, sealing his fate and exposing his emotions for the worst pain he could imagine…

_ She doesn't love me._

A painful groan escaped his throat and he pounded his bruised knuckles against the bench, not caring if he broke the scabs. Lord what a fool he was. She had stood in front of him, and said, "It will be hard letting you go, my last link of home." He read too much into it. He should have realized that she was simply telling him she was going to miss her home, he should have focused on the last half of that sentence. But no…he heard the words "hard letting you go" and immediately took it for the imagined sign that he had been praying for.

And thus began his downfall.

_"Not as hard as it is for me…"_

A bitter laugh filled the garage. Was it coming from him? Or was it his cousin? He thought she was making a declaration, when rather she was making polite small talk, as was the way of _her kind_. Despite the warning she gave him, he barreled on.

_"I know I shouldn't say it but I can't keep it in any longer."_

_"I wish you would…"_

Why didn't he listen to her? Why didn't he stop? She was giving him one last chance, one last opportunity to save his dignity, as well as his heart…

He remembered being chilled by her words. He remembered his smile beginning to fade as she looked down at her feet, instead of holding his gaze. But the hope he had been carrying for over two years refused to be snuffed, so he continued, pouring his heart out and declaring everything he had been feeling for so long.

He had told her about how he had been fighting these feelings, how he had been at war with his rational mind and those around him who shared his rationality's opinion. But things were changing, he had said, and for this reason, he had ignored those voices.

_"When the war is over the world won't be the same place as when it started, I'll make something of myself, I promise!"_

Who had he been trying to convince? Her…or himself?

She had interrupted him then, telling him that she knew he would make good on his promise, that more or less, she believed in him. He should have seen it for what it was, a polite thing to say…but instead, it spurred him on, and that was when he made his plea.

_"Then bet on me!"_

Despite all his efforts, a hot tear rolled down his swollen cheek. God what a fool he had been.

She stared at him, her eyes wide and searching. He had taken it as a positive sign, when he should have realized she was only searching for a way to "let him down gently". After a moment's pause, he barreled on once more, and probably said the worst thing he could have said, talking about her parents casting her off, telling her it wouldn't matter if they did, attempting to reassure her that they would come around, but how could he promise that? If she hadn't already been planning on saying no to him, his words about the harshness of reality certainly would have given her reason to.

He ended his speech by attempting to be romantic. He told her he would devote every waking minute to her happiness. In his dreams, this was when she threw her arms around his neck, launching herself off the ground and pressing her lips against his, before murmuring his name and saying "yes!"

But this was not a dream.

This was a nightmare.

_ "I'm terribly flattered…"_

How it hurt to hear her say that. How it hurt to watch her put on a smile, as if trying to let him down gently as one would for a pet or small child. Perhaps that was how she saw him? Certainly not as a man worth loving; certainly not as her equal in life.

No, no, that was too harsh. He was hurt, yes, but she didn't deserve that sort of resentment. If truth be told, he didn't resent her; he didn't even blame her.

He blamed himself. As he had done the night of the Count, he committed the cardinal sin of "forgetting himself". He had fallen in love with a woman who could never be his, and he had fallen prey to the delusion that she could return his affections.

_"I'm terribly flattered…"_

Everything happened so fast after that. The world came crashing down, and he swore that in that moment he felt his heart break into thousands of pieces. He couldn't look at her for fear that she would see his heartbreak. He tried to keep his dignity, which wasn't much, by more or less pleading for her not to say those words. When she asked why, he couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice, and muttered that those words were what posh people used to say "no". She tried to make a joke of the situation, saying something along the lines of "that sounds more like you"; tried to laugh, tried to smile, tried to make him do the same…but that was even more painful. A glimpse of how things "used to be", before he opened his stupid mouth and poured his heart out.

Before he ruined it all.

What else could be said? She didn't love him. All those signs he had been searching for and thought he had found, were false.

He pulled over three times on the drive back. The first time was only a mile outside of York. He gripped the steering wheel and breathed in heavy, gasping breaths, forcing his body to keep the sobs at bay. Once he felt he had a grip on his emotions, he continued, only to stop a second time twenty minutes later. Now his sorrow was replaced by anger, and he balled his fists and began hitting and pounding the steering wheel, making nonsensical guttural noises, while a few traitorus tears escaped. He nearly threw his hat into a nearby stream. But like before, he was eventually able to get his emotions under control, and he drove on…

…Only to stop at a pub in the next village.

Whisky. What was it that his Uncle Seamus used say? "_When you have a problem with women, lad, whisky can be your best friend!_" No truer words were ever spoken. He parked the car a few yards from the pub, left his hat and undid the top buttons of his jacket, freeing his neck from the suffocating tie, and without another glance, walked in and ordered two whiskies, both of which he drank in quick succession.

Whisky burned, but that was what he needed. Maybe it could burn the pain, the sorrow, the love he felt out of his heart? Maybe it could purify his body from these damned emotions? Maybe it could simply make him forget everything that had happened today. Maybe, if he drank enough of it…it could make him forget the past two or three years.

"Two more," he growled, slamming his empty glasses down on the bar.

The barman eyed him suspiciously. "Don't know if you should drink them that fast, lad—"

"I'm Irish," Branson interrupted, harshly. "Trust me, I can handle my liquor."

The barman sighed and proceeded to pour him two more glasses. While doing so, his eyes darted to over Branson's shoulder. Branson turned his head and caught the gaze of another man, one who looked grizzled and angry. From the way he was dressed, he looked like a common, Yorkshire farmer, who had come in for a respite of ale after a hard day of work. But the expression he wore was not common; it was bitter—very bitter.

Branson ignored it. He turned back to his waiting glasses of whisky and proceeded to drink them, once more in quick succession, once more enjoying the feeling of his insides on fire. By his fifth glass, the alcohol was finally beginning to have its desired effect. Things seemed hazy, both in vision and in memory. He was attempting to order a sixth glass, and realized his words were coming out in slurs.

The barman shook his head. "No lad, I think that's enough."

Branson frowned. "I…I don't need to be coddled…"

The barman looked sympathetic. "No matter how hard you try, you won't find the solution to your problem at the bottom of your glass. Trust me, I know."

He didn't want sympathy or understanding or advice. He wanted to be drunk. So drunk that he couldn't stand up or remember his name. "Jusss…juss give me…one more," he grumbled through his slurs.

"The man said no, paddy!"

The barman groaned and Branson frowned, before turning around on his stool to face his insulter. It was the bitter looking farmer, whose dark eyes seemed to be glowing like two hot coals. "Don't you understand? Or is the King's tongue too good for you?"

"George, please don't—" the barman pleaded, but the irate farmer threw up a warning hand, and proceeded to stalk across the pub towards Branson.

He noticed that the man, George, had a distinct limp in his right leg. Branson also noticed as the man came closer, that he had some nasty scars on the side of his neck, that crawled up to the right-hand side of his face, and that his right ear looked a little mangled. Another bitter survivor of the Great War?

"Bloody paddies," he growled, his eyes sizing Branson up as only a bully would do. "Come here, demanding work, taking our good English money, but then shooting our boys over there!"

He wasn't talking about the war on the Continent. Maybe his injuries weren't a result of _that_ particular war.

"I bloody hate paddies," he spat, before emphasizing his disdain by literally spitting on Branson's boot.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Branson muttered, his voice calm and suddenly very sober. He shook the spit off his boot.

"Not half as sorry as you're going to be!" the man bellowed, before throwing his fist back to make contact with Branson's jaw.

But Branson was faster and easily moved out of the way. George hit nothing by air, but the force in which he threw his punch hurled his body into the bar, causing him to slam his gut painfully against it.

This was not the first pub fight Branson had been in. In Ireland, these were the sort of scrapes he and Martin and their friends would find on a regular basis. Sometimes they ended in laughter, with another round being ordered by the "enemy" side. Sometimes they ended in swearing, where various people had to be dragged away before the police, (or worse, an English soldier) came to break it up. In moments like these, where it was clear that the man who wanted to fight was far more inebriated, the smart thing to do was walk away. No one would think it cowardly; where's the sport in fighting a man who can barely stand? Walking away now, while George sputtered and gasped for breath while cradling his painful belly and sides, was the smart thing to do.

But right now, Branson didn't want to be smart.

The barman shouted for him to stop, but it was too late. Branson kicked at George's bad leg, causing him to stumble forward, and then grabbed him by the back of the head, before slamming it down, hard, into the bar. It left a dent in the wood, as well as knocked George out completely.

George hadn't been alone. He had two companions, who had been watching helplessly all this time. Now that their friend was lying on the ground, blood oozing from his nose and forehead, they turned to Branson and let out a war cry, before charging forward and grabbing him about the waist and throwing him down onto of the bar.

The poor barman was trying to get them all to stop, but no one was listening. Glasses went flying. Branson threw his leg out and kicked one of the men off him. The other was gripping him by the lapels of his livery jacket, attempting to lift him up so he could slam Branson's head against the bar. "Stupid paddy!" the man shouted. Branson felt around under the bar, and his hand came in contact with some sort of glass bottle. Without a second thought, he lifted the bottle, and smashed it atop the head of his attacker. The man stumbled back, momentarily stunned by the impact, and wobbled around in cross-eyed circles. Branson took the opportunity to push himself off the bar, and without a second thought, charged at the man, his own arms going around the man's waist, and slamming him hard against a wall.

The man that he had previously kicked came up behind Branson and wrestled him off his friend. Punches were thrown every which way. One got Branson square in the eye, another cut his lip. But these men were amateurs in pub fighting. They wouldn't last more than a few seconds in a Dublin pub. Branson's fist flew hard and fierce, cracking one attacker's jaw, before blackening the eye of another. His knuckles were bleeding, and he could feel blood filling his mouth and pouring down from his nostrils. But he didn't stop; all of the frustration, all of the pain, all of the anger he had been wrestling with ever since he left York was unleashed with every punch and kick and slam of his body, until the two men were lying in a heap on the ground, just like their friend George.

He coughed and groaned, his hands resting atop his knees as he tried to catch his breath. He looked around at the bar…taking in the wreckage that he had help havoc. The poor barman stood off to the side, looking helpless and a little frightened.

Branson felt sorry for the man. _Drunken, Irish hooligan._ He did not represent his people or his homeland in a good way just now. "I'm sorry…" he murmured, truly feeling it.

The barman sighed and shook his head. "Just leave, please…"

Branson couldn't blame the man for that. He couldn't blame the man for wanting him arrested, even. While he could not deny that yes, it felt good to fight; it felt good to let everything out, and especially with a small-minded bully…he also knew that it didn't have to escalate to what it had been. Certainly not at the expense of a working man's business.

He sighed, and dug into his pocket. He pulled out all the money he had and placed it on the bar. He met the barman's eyes, and nodded his head, before finally turning and leaving, both the pub and the village.

"Here we are." He looked up, slightly startled by Anna's return. She carried several bottles in her arms, as well as some strips of clean linen. "Mrs. Patmore swears by these things; says they reduce any swelling within a day, two at most."

Branson eyed the items suspiciously. "Since when did Mrs. Patmore become Florence Nightingale?" He winced slightly at the joke, mainly because he had once compared another lady to the heroic nurse.

Anna ignored him and proceeded to pour some of the ointments and herbs onto a cloth. "I'm afraid this will sting," she warned, before lifting the cloth to his eye and cheek.

Branson's nose wrinkled in disgust. "I may pass out from the smell first! Good God, what is it?"

Anna shook her head. "Probably best to live in ignorance about that."

A hiss escaped his lips as the smelly concoction made contact with his cuts. The burn that would purify his body hadn't been in the whisky but in whatever witches brew Mrs. Patmore kept in her kitchen. "Hold that tight," Anna ordered, encouraging him to take the cloth and press it against his cheek, while she took the linen strips and proceeded to dab some salve into a few other cuts and bruises. Despite the initial sting, Branson could feel a positive difference. "So…are you going to tell me how all this happened?" Anna innocently asked.

He sighed and closed his eyes. Let the prodding begin. "What was that line you used about living in ignorance?"

Anna gave him a look, before pouring some salve onto his knuckles. He hissed and groaned and wondered if maybe she had done that on purpose? "Come now, wouldn't it be better to tell me than for Mrs. Hughes to interrogate you?"

He returned the look she had just given him. "I'm starting to doubt that."

She couldn't help but giggle slightly. "Oh come now, Mr. Branson, this is hardly the Spanish Inquisition." Her smile was tender, and one filled with wisdom beyond her years. It was uncanny how much she reminded him of his sister. "I know that…that I was never as close to you as you were with Gwen, or William, or…" her voice caught and Branson felt her pain. She took a deep breath and carried on. "But you and I are friends, are we not?"

"Aye," Branson agreed, without pause. Everyone adored Anna, how could they not? Why he was even convinced that O'Brien liked her, although he knew the witch would never admit it.

"Good," she smiled, before her look changed to one that was serious. "So…tell me. What caused this?"

She was being kind to him, as was her nature, but she was going a step beyond as well. Anna, who was always prim and proper and who followed protocol in a way that would make Carson proud, was making a promise to keep his secret, and to lie for him if it were needed.

"I…" he began. Should he tell her everything? He considered it for a moment, but thought the better of it. While he did feel he could trust Anna if need be, at the same time he didn't want to make her feel morally uncomfortable, and he feared that the truth would do that. "I made a mistake," he simply said.

"A mistake?"

He nodded his head. "Aye. I…I thought I knew something…but I was wrong."

She looked at him for a long time, not saying a word, merely studying him with her dark eyes. He couldn't deny that he found her gaze just a bit intimating. "I understand," she finally murmured after a long pause.

Branson's brow furrowed with confusion. What did she mean by that?

She proceeded to speak while wrapping some linen around his knuckles. "I made a mistake too," she explained. No one could deny the sorrow in her voice. "I forgot myself. I knew there were obstacles, _he told me_ there were obstacles…but I never once stopped hoping, stopped yearning, stopped praying that one day, we would overcome them." She lifted her head and he could see the tears swimming in her eyes. "But I was wrong."

"Anna—"

"No, no, you don't understand," she stopped him before he could offer any sympathy. "I was wrong…in not doing _everything_ I could, to stop him and keep him for myself!"

There was a fierceness in her tone, one that would make the bravest man pause and tremble in awe.

"He was mine, not hers," she explained. "She doesn't want him, she doesn't love him…all she wants is to make his life miserable!" she spat. Branson had never seen Anna like this before, and he couldn't deny that there was a part him that was frightened. But at the same time, he admired her fire, just as he had always admired Sybil's fire. "She took him from me; she invaded my home, and stole him!"

"He'll come back, Anna, you know that—"

Anna shook her head. "No, I don't. Because I know he's doing this to save me, I know he's sacrificing his happiness for my reputation because he loves me just as fiercely as I love him."

What did she mean? Why would Bates need to save her? What stain could possibly tarnish Anna's reputation?

She sighed and wiped her eyes and cheeks, before wrapping her arms around herself to keep out the November chill. "I should have fought harder. I should have faced her and…and…ripped that stupid, ugly hat from her head and spit her face and claw her eyes out!"

Branson's own eyes widened at Anna's description. Clearly she was the one to have by his side if he ever found himself in another pub fight.

"So you see," she finally managed to say after a few calming breaths. "I understand what you mean, about making mistakes. Because I just made the biggest mistake of my life, and I will regret it for as long as I live."

But their "mistakes" weren't the same. Anna knew that Bates loved her. But Sybil didn't, even though he had been so sure…

"_Right. I'll go…I'll hand in my notice, and I won't be there when you get back—"_

"_No! Don't do that!"_

"_I must…they won't let me stay when they've heard what I've said."_

"_They won't hear…not from me."_

He remembered staring at her for a long time. She didn't move until another young lady came by the archway to enter the dormitories, for which she stepped aside, and then proceeded to look down at the ground.

He was being dismissed, or at that was how he understood it at the time. He thought she was embarrassed, seen standing there, talking to "the help". Why prolong her embarrassment and his agony? Without another word, he turned on his heel and briskly walked away, leaving her there with her suitcases. Earlier on the drive, she had asked him to let her carry them inside, to which he had smiled, taking it as a sign of independence, but he had quietly vowed to carry them himself, despite her request. Well, in the end, she got her wish…and he had nothing.

But now, after hearing Anna's passionate speech, and reflecting on that last exchange between himself and Sybil, he began to question things.

What did she mean, exactly? When she had told him that no one from Downton would hear what he had said, he had taken it at the time that she didn't want to be humiliated by his declaration…

But was that the case? His Sybil (he told the rational voice in his mind to shut up when it reprimanded him for thinking that) was not one that cared what others thought. His Sybil was an independent woman, determined to make her way in the world, to defy conventions, and leave her mark as she saw fit.

Maybe she was saying something else with those words? After all…if he examined the entire conversation, despite the "I'm terribly flattered" line…she _hadn't_ said "no".

_That's just wishful thinking, Tom. You know it's over…why won't you admit defeat?_

"Anna?" he turned to the housemaid who was putting the last of the linen wrappings on his knuckles. "Can you answer me this? She looked at him, and despite the puffy pinkness of her cheeks, her gaze was hard and determined. "Even if you knew everything that you know how, everything that you're feeling now; even if you were given a second chance, and things _still_ turned out this way…would you ever say that…that love…was the mistake?"

"No."

Branson was surprised by how quickly she answered his question. He thought she may at least pause to give it some thought, before answering so directly.

"Even if—"

"Yes, Mr. Branson," she interrupted, and began gathering all the supplies she had brought. "Even if."

Anna's loyalty and steadfastness put him to shame. It would put all the great poets and lovers through the ages to shame. He swallowed the lump in his throat, suddenly feeling very humbled. "So…what will you do now?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Live with my mistake," she sighed. "I love John Bates, and I always will. I will never love another as I love him, so I won't even try."

Amazing. "Anna?" he felt like a small child, lost and seeking help. "What should I do?"

Her gaze was soft, but very wise. "You know I can't answer that question, Mr. Branson. But I do know that we must grow from our mistakes. The question is…what is the lesson _you_ need to learn?" She turned her back then and was about to exit the garage, but paused one last time. "I don't know the details to your 'mistake' Mr. Branson, nor do I think I should. That's between yourself and the good Lord. But…I will say this. If I ever do get another opportunity to be with John Bates…then I will not let it go. And despite my misgivings…I know I can't stop hoping and praying that we will be together."

He could feel tears prickling the corners of his eyes. "I believe you," he whispered. "And I will pray the same." He meant it; he would pray that she and Bates would soon be reunited…and maybe, just maybe…he would also pray for another couple, close to his heart.

She smiled and then bowed her head. "Goodnight, Mr. Branson."

"Goodnight, Anna. Thank you." _For so many things,_ he thought. He retreated to his cottage then. He kicked off his boots and pulled off his shirt and waistcoat, before collapsing on his bed, utterly exhausted.

So what was the lesson to be learned? The obvious answer was that he should never lose his heart to someone who is obviously above him and out of his league. But he had never cared for that answer, and even now, despite everything that happened, he didn't want to listen to it. Anna chose to remain faithful to Bates, even though things right now looked dire for them. And the lesson she had learned was to fight harder, and never lose hope.

So should he do the same? Should he still hope that she could love him? That she would come around and accept him? Should he continue to fight? Or was it all pointless? Poor Anna was suffering from her heartbreak; she said she would never love another, and Branson couldn't believe that any other woman could ever measure up to Lady Sybil. So with that in mind…should he stay? She begged him not to leave when he told her he would; should he have hope in that plea? Or should he go, return to Ireland, and face the injustices happening in his home country?

"Two years…" he whispered to himself in the dark. He had waited for two years to tell her about the love he held for her in his heart. Had he waited too long? Or despite how things had gone today…was the timing right? He rolled over onto his side and gazed off into the darkness of the room. He didn't have to make a decision tonight. He had two months.

Two months. _They might as well be another two years,_ he thought to himself. They certainly would feel like it. But old words from a long ago conversation were replayed once more in his mind. _What's a month or a year when you love someone?_


	46. Sybil's Diary XIII

_Sorry for the lack of updates! I promise to update this at least one more chapter before working on "Stepping Stones" any further. This chapter took me a while to write, and at the end of the day, felt so heartwrenching at times, that I had to stop and go do something happy...like watch Branson/Sybil vids on Youtube :oP Anyway, I hope you like it and please, please, *please* let me know your thoughts! I appreciate feedback always! Thank you!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Forty-Six<strong>

November 6, 1916

I can't believe it…

…

…

He…Branson…he…he…_proposed…_

…

I'm not mad, am I? While he didn't specifically say, "will you marry me?" he did more or less…ask me to…to…

Oh God. Oh God, help me…please…

…

…

Why? WHY NOW? After…after waiting and wondering for…for God knows how long…why, today of all days, when I leave home, when for the first time in my life I will be completely dependent upon myself and no other, when for the first time I will be thrust into a way of living that is completely different from everything I know…

Why tell me today of all days…that he loves me?

…

…Alright, once again, he didn't say those exact words, but…no, I'm not mad, I am not imagining things, I'm not making any of this up, this is NOT wishful thinking on my part!

…

Oh God…he loves me.

He _loves_ me! He loves me and wants me to be with him…

…

If I weren't so…so…confused and upset right now, I would be spinning with joy! But…joy is the _last_ thing I am feeling.

Damn him. It's not supposed to be like this! This isn't how a person should feel, when someone tells you that they love you…if that is true.

No, no, it is…at least…I think it is. Or is that more wishful thinking? Do I want him to love me? _Should_ I want him to? I don't know! I'm so…so…just so confused right now! I don't know what to think or feel…

…

We were standing in the archway that led to the dormitories. I had asked him to let _me_ carry my suitcases inside, even though I hadn't thought about how on earth I would manage to lug the heavy things up a flight of stairs. But I wanted to prove myself to…myself, I suppose. Prove that this was right, that despite the thousands of butterflies threatening to revolt in my stomach, that I could do this—be away from home, live on my own, and take care of myself; no servants, no friends, no family…just me.

We paused in that archway, he putting my suitcases down as I had earlier requested, and I thought, "This is it". I was thrilled at the prospect of this new adventure…as well as absolutely terrified. I needed reassurance, a reminder that I wasn't mad for doing this and I turned then to my best friend, seeking the wisdom and support he had always offered. I tried to make light of my nervousness, by joking that it would be hard to let him go, my last link from home. While my words were lighthearted…they were also true. I hardly slept a wink the previous night, and while I could argue until I'm blue in the face that it was because of nerves…I know that deep down…it was because I was sad about being parted from him…

I was expecting some sort of joke in return—_hoping_ for some sort of joke, for some parting teasing remark that would tempt me to swat him, just like all those times in the past.

…But what happened took me completely by surprise.

Lord help me; I could recite every word he said…

_ "Not as hard as it is for me…"_

I was stunned.

I'm _still_ stunned.

This wasn't some joke. The look in his eyes, the way he…he just stared, so intensely into my own…and then the words he spoke…

_"I know I shouldn't say it, but I can't keep it in any longer…"_

How many times in my dreams have I imagined this scenario? But that's all it can be—dreams! Despite what…whatever it is that I feel…I know that deep down, it's just a crush, and that's all it will ever be because that's the way the world is. I've resolved myself to this…as painful as that is to accept.

I tried to make him stop…but he kept going.

_"I've told myself and told myself you're too far above me, but things are changing! When the War is over, the world won't be the same place as it was when it started…"_

Oh God, how I want to believe that. That has been my prayer for the last few years! But ever since the War started—no, before then, when I was canvassing, when I was in Ripon attending those rallies; the fear that I saw and the anger that I heard as those men protested to any sort of talk about change or reform…as much as I want to believe that change can happen, and that the world will embrace equality for all people, I…I have sadly come to the conclusion that the world will not allow it to happen without a fight…and a violent one at that.

Branson would be so ashamed of me, knowing I think that and seeing me write it. He's always telling me to rise above cynicism, that despite the struggle, to remain steadfast and hopeful…but it's exhausting! I don't know how he does it…and I fear I may have killed any good faith he possesses for others. I've certainly killed any he had for me.

…

He told me how he would make something of himself.

…

I've _never_ doubted him. I still remember our first conversation, on that drive to Ripon. I remember him telling me he wouldn't always be a chauffeur, and I remember going home and feeling so inspired by what he had said, and I too began believing that one day, I too could be more than just an Earl's daughter, whose only purpose is to marry a wealthy noble. And here I am, in York, at an actual college, preparing to be trained as an actual nurse! Cousin Isobel may have been the one to make the suggestion and get me the course, but truly, it is _BRANSON'S_ doing, that got me here in the first place. He always believed I could do whatever I set my heart to…and I believe the same of him.

I wanted him to at least know that…

_"Then bet on me!"_

Bet on me…

…I've never gambled before, not seriously at least. Mary is the superior card player, and despite all my brash talk, I've always "played it safe", and bowed out when the game appeared to be too difficult.

Oh God, does he…_did_ he realize what he was asking me with those few, simple words?

Coming here, to this place, making this decision to leave home and everything that is familiar and do what I'm about to do...doesn't he realize how much of a gamble I've already taken?

…I…I just…I don't know if I have any faith still left.

And while he was asking me to "bet on him"…did he realize that he was also asking me to bet on myself to make such a leap?

…

…

The words that followed were some of the most beautiful…and heartbreaking words I've ever heard.

_"…and if you're family cast you off, it won't be forever. They'll come around, and until they do, I promise to devote every waking moment to your happiness."_

I…in all my dreaming…I never once…imagined…

…

…

Bloody tears, I'm making the ink run…

…

…

…I hate myself.

I don't think I've loathed myself this much since the night of the Count—perhaps even more. I just…hearing him say those words, those beautiful, heart wrenching words…and knowing that despite my confused feelings and hopeful dreams, that nothing can come of it…I did the one thing that would save my breaking heart from shattering completely—but would make him despise me for…God knows how long, possibly forever? I wouldn't blame him…

I said I was "terribly flattered".

…Well that did the trick.

Any hope, any desire, any…love…he ever held for me…gone in an instant.

I became the thing I despise—an Earl's daughter whose only purpose is to find a husband and order servants about. As he said, "flattered" is a word _"posh people use when they're getting ready to say 'no'."_

And then…and then I tried to shut the gate after the horse had bolted, by more or less making some sort of quip at my own expense, although it sounded like I was making it at him…but it did not have the desired effect. Why would it? He was right, it _did_ sound like I was making fun of him, like I was mocking his…his _wonderful_ declaration that I have never nor will ever deserve…

I couldn't look at him. I was too ashamed. And my silence didn't help because just short of telling me how much he despises me, he said the next worst thing—that he would go, that by the time I returned to Downton, he would be gone and I wouldn't have to see him, ever again.

…

…That's the nightmare I have been fighting ever since the War started. No, before then—ever since the night of the Count. The nightmare that I will wake one day…and he'll be gone, and I'll never see him again.

…

…

Even now…it's too much to bear…

…

…My roommate has just gone back to bed. My crying woke her, but thankfully she was forgiving and kind and didn't ask too many questions. I told her I was homesick…which isn't a complete lie; it's just that my homesickness is for a specific person.

I begged him not to go, my voice desperate and pleading. He said he would have to, once it was learned, all the things he had said. And that was when I promised him that they wouldn't hear anything…not from me. I wanted him to know that too; not only do I believe that he can accomplish anything he dreams, but that no matter what happens…no matter what he says…his secrets are always safe with me. No matter what he thinks of me now…I can at least make that promise; to always be his friend.

However, now that I think about it…I suppose my faith in his dreams is limited. Yes, I do believe he can accomplish anything he dreams…except…except with me.

God forgive me. I'm no better than those protesters. I'm just another a frightened little girl, hiding behind my mother's skirts, afraid to face the unknown…or to acknowledge what I really, truly feel.

…

And forgive my selfishness. Because despite everything…I still want him in my life. Even if nothing can come of it, I still want him there. Oh Lord…I'm a wretched creature.

What do I do now? How should I behave? Do I _try_ to forget that it even happened? I don't think I can…I don't think I even want to.

Will he stay? When I return at Christmas, will he be there? He didn't promise me anything…he didn't say anything at all. He simply turned and left…and with every step he took away from me…I felt my heart breaking piece by piece.

God, please help me! What should I do? Please…I…I feel so lost...


	47. Branson's Journal IV

_Thanks again for all the wonderful reviews and feedback! I truly appreciate it and hope you can continue to let me know your thoughts! After this chapter, things will be begin to "move" forward from the initial shock of Branson's revelation and Sybil's response. Things will be a little slow for a bit with updates, mainly due to a work transition, but when I am able, I will try to update both stories as often as possible. Thanks for sticking it out and reading! Leave a review if you can!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Forty-Seven<strong>

November 19, 1916

More than two weeks have passed…

More than two weeks since I've written in this blasted thing and since I made a complete arse of myself.

And for more than two weeks I keep having the same, bloody recurring dream. And it's no better when I'm awake, because I keep reliving those last, awful moments where I'm standing in front of her, blubbering like a fool. And even though Mrs. Patmore's smelly concoction did the trick for my cuts and bruises…after two weeks, my face and knuckles are still tender.

More than two weeks have passed…and yet, I'm still here. And I don't know why.

…Alright, that's a lie, I _do_ know why. And I hate myself for it. I hate the fact that I can't make my heart stop feeling what it feels, or hoping that somehow, she'll change her mind and come around. I hate the stupid daydreams that every so often invade my head; I'm working in the garage, and I'll hear footsteps on the gravel. I lift my head, expecting to see William or Anna, but instead it's her…_my Sybil_…standing in the doorway, looking pink-cheeked and breathless, and I straighten up, my eyes wide and her name a gasp on my lips, but before I am able to say anything further…her arms are around me and she's telling me with her sweet mouth against my own, that she loves me.

It's a cruel daydream…and it refuses to leave me in peace. Or at least it refuses so long as I remain here.

…

Oh God…why can't I make myself go? There's nothing for me here! Martin was right; I've conceded that fact over these past two weeks. I should return home, I need to return home, but…WHY IS IT SO HARD TO ACCEPT THIS AND MOVE FORWARD?

GOD ALMIGHTY, WHY AM I _STILL_ HOPING? SHE MADE IT OBVIOUS THAT SHE _DOESN'T_ RETURN MY FEELINGS! AND AS FOOLISH AS I AM, I _KNOW_ SHE ISN'T GOING TO WALK IN THROUGH THAT DOOR AND TELL ME OTHERWISE, SO…WHY?

…

I'm going mad.

No, I _am_ mad. That's the only explanation.

…

In the days since…since when I last saw _her_, things have been…uneventful.

Well, almost uneventful. Word reached us late this morning that the Battle of the Somme, a battle that seemed to have no end in sight, finally came to an end, yesterday. The kitchen maids were asking who had won and Mr. Carson reassured all of us gathered that "naturally" it was the Allies. As I imagine the casualty lists, plus the lists of those who were injured and captured…I can't say I share his confidence. Truly…can anyone be victorious in such a blood bath?

Meanwhile, I have continued my driving lessons with Lady Edith. She's getting better with each lesson, but I still find myself gripping the door every time she makes a turn. She hasn't quite grasped the importance of applying pressure to the break in such times. But despite these death-defying moments…I must confess that I have come to admire Lady Edith. As well as perhaps…pity her, too. She's clearly the "overlooked" Crawley member, not just with her sisters, but with the entire family. No one seems to expect Lady Edith to do anything of consequence. She doesn't have the same "weight of responsibility" the way Lady Mary does. I would even dare say that no one expects Lady Edith to marry to at all. I have overheard his Lordship and Ladyship talk in the car about Lady Mary's potential beau, a Sir Richard Carlisle, just as I have heard her Ladyship and the Dowager Countess continue to discuss Mr. Matthew. It seems that Lady Mary and whoever her potential husband will be is all any of them can talk about. Not once, have I ever heard Lady Edith mentioned. And I know that she's aware of it.

Besides Mr. Patrick, she also once fancied a gentleman that used to visit here named Sir Anthony Strallen. I remember him, or I should say, I remember his car very well. Lady Edith explained to me one afternoon that it was he, who got her interested in driving. She told me that he had originally come to call on Lady Mary, but her sister wanted little to do with him. Lady Edith decided to take matters into her own hands and pursue Sir Anthony for herself.

"_He's a perfectly respectable gentleman, and even though he was considerably older, I still thought he was handsome—perhaps not as handsome as Patrick, but he certainly wasn't a man a woman should be ashamed to be seen with."_

…Or something along those lines. Anyway, she chose to pursue him, partially, she admitted, because no one would expect her to. She didn't say the words, but I could tell she was tired of living in her sister's shadow…both sisters, perhaps. Her efforts paid off, because it wasn't long before Sir Anthony was visiting with specific hopes to see and speak with _her_.

Apparently this made Lady Mary very jealous, according to Lady Edith. Something which obviously delighted her, based on the gleeful way in which she told me.

Sir Anthony would take her on long drives, and they would talk about all sorts of things, from books they had read to the places he had traveled. She loved all his stories, even the ones about his first wife, and never tired of hearing him talk. I confess, I was both amazed and honored that she chose to share all of this with me, and momentarily forgot myself, asking whatever happened to him.

…She grew very still then, and I had to call her attention to the road before she skidded off the side. After the initial shock of what nearly had happened passed, she simply murmured that Sir Anthony had had a "change of heart", and that despite his age, was now serving in France.

Well, I certainly can relate to Lady Edith on that count. I wanted to say something, to express my sympathy, or at the very least to tell her I understood her heartbreak…but I didn't dare. No doubt she would think I was mocking her or patronizing her. Or worse, she would ask me to tell her all about my own heartbreak, and that is certainly something I must remain silent upon.

Now that Gwen has gone, there's no one here I can really talk to about the subject. And even though Anna was kind and encouraging (as always), I still don't think I can tell her _everything_. Besides, she's still mourning for Bates…and most likely will be, for a very long time.

I guess it's happened. I've joined the ranks of the heartbroken, here at Downton.

…And yet, I must confess I am in awe of these women, on both sides of the staircase. Anna, for her calm and quiet strength, as well as Lady Edith. It's obvious that both of them are hurting and grieving for the loss of men they loved…and yet they somehow manage to go on. But unlike me, they have nowhere else to go. I could leave for Ireland within a week's notice, if need be. I could turn and run away from this place, even though visions of a spirited girl in blue harem pants would follow me wherever I went…or…I could search within myself for an ounce of the strength and courage that they have…and carry on. Here. At Downton Abbey.

I keep reminding myself that I won't have to see her again for two months.

Well, nearly two months. I'm sure she'll be back around Christmas. But even so…that gives me several long weeks where I…where I…

…

…It's hopeless. I'm damned if I do, and I'm damned if I don't. I dread the minute I have to see her again…and yet, I miss her so much. I honestly don't know what's worse right now; living here without her, or the idea of seeing her again, with the knowledge that she knows how I feel…but that she doesn't love me in return.

How does Lady Edith do it? How is she able to laugh and smile after experiencing heartbreak—twice! How is Anna able to go on? I struggle with getting out of bed, but she's up hours before me, working as hard as she ever has, despite this weight upon her heart.

The Somme has finally come to an end, but I fear I'm beginning my own "Somme", so to speak. And I fear that it too will be long and bloody, as well as lack a clear victor in the end.


	48. York to Downton: Sybil's Letter

_HUGE THANK YOU'S to everyone for their patience and support. Things have been very hectic in my corner of the world, and I did warn that updates would be slow, but thank you to everyone who has been wonderful and encouraging, I appreciate it so much, and I will keep trying to update whenever I do find the opportunity. But thank you once again for staying with me and following this story, and for all the lovely comments that you leave! They truly do help and provide inspiration! So without further ado..._

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><p><strong>Chapter Forty-Eight<strong>

Dear Branson,

I pray that you are in good spirits when this reaches you…

…

…

Dear Branson,

I hope you have at least read this far, although I suppose I can't blame you for wanting to tear apart anything that bears my name…

…

…

Branson,

Do you have any idea what it was like, standing there, and hearing you say what you said? Can you even comprehend…

…

…

Tom,

I…I'm so sorry, I…

…

…

…

Dear Branson,

I had my first test today. But it was unlike any test I've ever taken before. We had to examine a body…a _dead_, dissected body…and identify all the major organs, to show that we understand the inner workings of the human body.

Have I shocked you? It certainly isn't every day that one receives such a letter with such an opening.

I wouldn't blame you if you are a little disgusted, I must confess I was shocked and somewhat disgusted as well, when I realized what we were going to do. My instructor, who is the Chief Nurse at the hospital here in York, has a very…aggressive…teaching style. She is certainly different from any governess I have had in the past.

On the first day of classes, she stormed into the room and looked at each of us with narrowed eyes and a stare that would freeze Hell, before pointing a finger at one girl who was cowering in a corner and demanded to know if she had ever seen human organs. The poor girl fainted right on the spot.

That was how I was introduced to Nurse Templeton. She's a hard-hearted woman, who has no qualm about singling out a student and forcing them to answer a question, no matter how discomforting it may be. Her manner would certainly cause Mama to cry out for some smelling salts; who knows, she may even be a match for granny! But I must admit, despite her brash manner and cold exterior…I do find that I admire her.

After Gretchen, the girl who had fainted, had been carried out of the room, Nurse Templeton turned to the rest of us and stated that she had no time for swooners or idiots who knew nothing about human anatomy. I think we were all taken aback by that statement. She also declared that she knew several of us were from fine, upper class families, and that if the only reason we were here was because we had seen pictures of the royal family dabbing the brows of shell-shocked soldiers, then we best pack our bags and leave that instant.

She said, _"I am not here to coddle some Lord's daughter because she feels it is her 'duty' to help her fellow man. I am here to train capable women to become proper nurses. The work I am training you to do is not the sort any princess would perform. You will be present during surgeries, you will see blood, and organs, and bone, and you may even have to hold a man down and assist a surgeon in removing a limb. You will see every kind of degradation that could happen to a man, and you will be expected keep a clear head and an iron stomach at all times. I am expecting nothing short of the very best…and I have no qualm in sending you packing if I feel otherwise."_

Oh Lord, listen to me; I honestly do remember every word she said. And what chilled me was that she looked right at _me_ at the end of her speech.

But I straightened my spine, lifted my chin, and tried my hardest not to show any fear. I am _still_ trying very hard.

When this course started, there were 23 girls in our class. Now, we are down to 16. And it hasn't even been a full month! Last night I tried to console my roommate, who was terrified that she would be sick during today's exam. However, she confessed she was more upset at the thought of bearing Nurse Templeton's wrath than seeing a dead body. Thankfully, Susan (my roommate), was able to make it through the whole exam…although she, along with several other girls, immediately rushed outside for some fresh air the second the test was over.

By some miracle, I have been able to keep a level head, although there have been moments when Nurse Templeton fixes her harsh stare upon me, and I think I am about to be sent back to the dormitory to gather my belongings…if not to the gallows. Truly, nothing I could have imagined could have fully prepared me for this place…

…And yet…I don't believe I would have it any other way.

Our days are rigid; we begin early, at six. After a simple breakfast of tea and porridge, we are off to the lecture hall where we spend hours, poured over books on anatomy, while listening to various lectures presented by either Nurse Templeton or a surgeon from the hospital. These lectures range from all sorts of subjects, from medicinal treatments to calming patients suffering from shell shock. After a small lunch, we go to the hospital, where we follow Nurse Templeton like a horde of lemmings, watching her and other nurses go about their business, taking notes at a furious pace, as well as answering whatever questions Nurse Templeton barks to us. Next week, each of us will be assigned to assist one of the hospital nurses, to watch and learn from her example. Poor Susan is afraid that she will be Nurse Templeton's assistant. We remain at the hospital until half-past six, and then return for a meager supper, followed by study time in the library. Several girls have formed a study group, which I think is a brilliant idea. However…they have made it quite clear that I am not invited to join them. But it doesn't matter, because Susan has been a wonderful friend and she and I have a special corner in the library where we study and go over our notes from the day, until the librarian tells us it's time to leave. And even then, she sometimes has to tell us twice! By now it is half-past nine, and we end our evening at the dormitory chapel. After this simple service of hymns and prayers, its lights out, which we accept very easily, because by now we are…oh, what was that phrase I heard Susan use the other day? Ah yes, "knackered". Yes, by now we are "well knackered". Although…I have found this time to be the best time to write…and that is exactly what I am doing…writing to you.

I don't even think I could sleep right now if I tried; I'm so nervous about how I performed during today's exam! I answered Nurse Templeton's questions as quickly as I could when she barked them at me, and I had studied very hard during these last few days in preparation…but I won't know until tomorrow. Nurse Templeton threatened that the girl with lowest scores would be sent home. While I do miss home, very much…I confess I would feel like an utter failure if I left now!

Oh Branson…I…truly, I am glad I came here. It is hard work, yes, harder than anything I could have imagined, as I said before, but…even though I have done so little, thus far, I do feel that I am _finally_ making a difference. The knowledge I am gaining now will be put to good work, and I will be able to truly do some good for others. Yes, I do believe this was the right decision, to come here.

…But…as I said…I do miss…home. And…and everything about it.

…

So...how are Edith and her driving lessons? Would you trust her _alone_ with a car, yet? I know that she can be…well…"thick-headed" when it comes to taking instruction (she always believed she knew better than our governess', no matter how hard they stressed a point in a lesson), but I know that with you as her teacher, she will be outstanding.

…

Um...oh! Have you heard anything from Gwen? I did write to her before leaving Downton, giving her my address at the college; I am eager to hear the news about whether it's a boy or a girl!

And…has there been any more word about Bates? How is Anna? Oh that's a stupid question; indeed, I'm sure she's doing very fine, nursing a broken heart—

…

…

…

Well…I…well…please, give my…I mean, send my…

…

…Please, tell everyone that…that I think of them often, that I truly do miss…all of them. And…and that I will try my very best to make them proud.

Branson...I pray…I pray that…

…

Branson…I…I mean, thank you, I…

Well…

…

Take care. I miss you.

—Lady Sybil


	49. A Letter to Nowhere

_Hello everyone! I know, it's been a very long time since I last updated this story, and ask for your forgiveness as well as thank you for your patience and understanding._

_Part of the reason for the delay is that I was very close to wrapping up "Stepping Stones" and really wanted to get it done, and I'm proud to say...IT'S FINISHED! So please, if you haven't had the chance to read it, or were wanting to wait until it was finished, please be sure to stop by and give it a read!_

_Ok, one last thing (which I confess does sound like a shameless self-promotion); this particular chapter *may* make more sense if you at least read Chapter 12 of "Stepping Stones", just to give you some context as to what happened in Branson's past...and how that's affecting him right now. This particular chapter deals with the subject of grief, a subject that people deal with in a variety of ways. So while it may seem a little odd, with what Branson's doing...I ask that you look at it with the eyes of someone who is grieving, and who is seeking some kind of solace._

_Alright, I've blabbered long enough...I hope you enjoy and please, let me know your thoughts if you can! THANK YOU!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Forty-Nine<strong>

Dear Martin,

…

She wrote to me.

…

Mr. Carson was handing out the post, and dropped a letter into my hands. There was no return address. But I instantly recognized the handwriting…

…

God, why am I…?

I don't know what to do.

I don't know how I should feel.

Surprise was the first emotion I felt. Utter shock and surprise. It's been weeks since that…that day…and I was sure that was the end of it.

It _is_ the end of it. Oh Lord, what am I saying? There never was _anything_ to begin, let alone end!

But what I mean is, I was…I was so sure that…that she and I would never speak to one another again. I…I thought she would be…embarrassed, or…or that she even despises me, but…instead, she wrote to me…

…

I guess I'm still shocked. Can you tell?

The second emotion I felt was panic. Did Carson recognize her handwriting as well? Did my face give anything away when he dropped that letter in front of me? I tried to be discreet, while at the same time, hide it as quickly as possible before anyone asked who it was from…but thankfully, no one did. No one even seemed to notice me there…

Did you see me?

Are you seeing me now?

…

I'm sorry, I…

…

I didn't open it right away. I stuffed it in my pocket and went about the rest of my morning routine…although it felt as if a lead weight were resting in my pocket rather than slim piece of paper. God, what was she going to say? What could she possibly write about? Was it a request that I leave before she return? A warning that she was going to say something to her family?

…Was it…I mean, did she change her mind?

I know, Martin, I know…I'm a _lovesick fool! _We all know that! But yes, I did think that; I did…hope.

Should I be ashamed? _Are you ashamed?_ Are you shaking your head as you read this?

…

I did finally read it. Not so long ago, to be honest. I read it, and then I read it again, then I paced back and forth so many times that no doubt I've left a trench on my cottage floor, before reading it for a third time.

Well, it was a request for me to leave. Nor a warning that she was going to say anything. And…no; it wasn't a "change of heart with a sudden declaration of her love".

It was simply…a letter. Just like the ones we used to write to each other, before the War.

Do you know what she told me? It's fascinating, really…

She's training to be a nurse at this college in York. She wrote to me just after taking an exam where she had to identify human organs from an actual body! God I can't even imagine…

I confess…I was both appalled, as well as proud.

God help me…

Yes; go on, sit in judgment of me, Martin, but yes…I admit it, I was—_am_, for that matter, PROUD of her.

Despite all that's happened…I'm still proud that she's doing this.

…

She continued, telling me all about her routine. She spends her mornings in a lecture hall, and her afternoons at the hospital. The nurse who is her instructor sounds like a right terror, but Sybil admires her. In the evening, she's locked away in the library, studying and learning all she can about how to…save lives.

…

I've often wondered…could she have saved your life, Martin? In many ways…she's saved mine. Despite all that's happened.

…

Apparently there are some women, fellow students, who want nothing to do with her, and refuse to let her into their study group. She doesn't go into details as to why they have shunned her, but I can read between the lines that she thinks it has something to do with her background; the daughter of an earl, come to play nurse while a war rages on.

Only, I know it's not play. She never saw it as play. This isn't some passing fashion, she's not like that. She genuinely wants to help, wants to make a difference, and she sees nursing as an opportunity to do just that.

Do I sound mad, Martin? Am I mad for defending her? I find myself wondering why I'm defending her choices—who am I defending them to? You? It's not as if you can rise up and argue against the subject.

Or is it me? Am I trying to…convince myself, of something?

…

…

I miss her, Martin. I miss her so badly. I can't sleep; I get up and walk the grounds at night, passing by that willow—_my_ willow, the one where I can best see her window—hoping and praying that a light will be shining; a sign that she's _there_.

But she's not. And I know that. Yet I still make the journey almost every night.

…

I need help, Martin. What should I do? Should I write back? And if I do, how should I respond? Do I pretend as if…as if I _didn't_ pour my heart out to her all those weeks ago? Is that what she wants? She doesn't make any mention about what happened between her and me, so maybe so. Maybe she _is_ embarrassed and ashamed about what transpired. Maybe her letter is a sign that she wants things to be as they were…

Do _I_ want that?

I want to be in her life, I know that. I don't want to leave her…at least…I'm not ready to…not yet.

What are you thinking now? Are you shouting at me? Throwing curses my way? Shaking your own head in shame? In pity? Telling me that I'm fool? You don't have to, trust me, I've told myself that plenty of times, especially after I revealed to her my feelings.

And…I have been debating it. Meaning, I have been debating my reasons for staying. What reason is there now? She doesn't love me; she doesn't see me as a man worthy to call her husband…

…But...God, I can't stop _hoping_…

It's as if there's…_something_…deep inside me, in my heart, that's screaming for me to be patient…to give her time.

Wishful thinking? I know that's what you would call it.

What would you do with such a letter? Would you respond? Or would you ignore it and toss it aside, adding it to the fire.

Do I owe her a response? No…I mean, she made me stand there like an idiot, while I told her how I felt, not giving me a proper answer to anything, simply looked at her feet, at anything other than my face…

…

…But…she didn't say _no_; not exactly.

Here I am, writing a defense again. Only this time I'm defending myself, to you!

…

No…we both know that's a lie.

…

Damn it, Martin…WHY DID YOU HAVE TO DIE ON ME?

Here I am, writing a letter that will never be mailed, that will never see anything beyond the light of this cottage, and that will quickly be tossed into the very fire I just mentioned as soon as I am finished. And yet DESPITE all that, here I am, wasting ink and paper, writing to a DEAD MAN!

…

God, Martin, I mean…do you have any idea what it's like? How _hard_ this has been? You were more than my cousin; you were my friend, my confidant! I know I didn't tell you outright about Sybil, but once I did, and despite knowing how you felt about the whole situation, you still welcomed my letters, you still listened to my woes.

Who can I talk to now?

No one. There's no one I can say these things to; no one I can turn to for counsel or support. Yes, I have friends, but you know as well as I that I can't say anything. So I sit in silence and put on a mask to hide the pain and torment I feel ripping inside of me, and retreat to my cottage to write letters to a ghost.

I'm all alone, Martin. And…God help me, it's been getting harder. Every month that passes, I feel your loss even more.

I know, I know, I'm being selfish, crying "woe is me", when I should be happy to be alive—and if I could Martin, I would gladly GIVE MY LIFE in exchange for yours.

…

…

What should I do?

I still love her. That hasn't changed. I'm elated that she wrote to me…and utterly frustrated as well.

Anyone else would look upon this and say I was needlessly torturing myself by even contemplating a response. But then they would say that about my choosing to stay in the first place.

It seems I'm still at an impasse. Even after taking the time to write this letter, I still don't have an answer. But…if I'm honest with myself, I was looking for any excuse to put the task off.

…

So that's that.

…

Maybe I'll write to you again? Later, after I've made my decision. Maybe I'll debate it all over, once more.

I miss you, Martin. I miss you and I love you, you bloody bastard.

Forgive my selfishness, but if it's possible…put in a good word for me with Saint Jude—patron saint of lost causes, including Tom Branson and his masochistic heart.

Take care,

—Tom


	50. Sybil's Diary XIV

_It's amazing how much more writing you can get done when you only have one story to work on! Anyway, here's the next installment; I was channel surfing the other night and "Mean Girls" was on a station, and I must confess...it inspired me. You'll see what I mean ;o)_

_Thanks again for all the wonderful feedback! Please take the time to let me know your thoughts, I love hearing from readers-it helps churn the imagination! Hope you enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Fifty<strong>

December 2, 1916

Four days.

In four days, I will have been here for an entire month.

I can't believe it! I can't believe how quickly the time has gone. Nearly one whole month…

And in that amount of time, I haven't heard one word from Branson…

Lord, how long ago was it when I sent that letter? Has it been a fortnight? I knew when I finally got up the courage to write it that it would be…well…"risky". I knew there was no guarantee that he would respond, but…still, I had hoped.

I mean, any number of things could have happened! Perhaps the letter never arrived in the first place! All thanks to my "oh-so brilliant" decision to not supply a return address; but it is a possibility. So is the possibility that it did arrive, but Carson or Mrs. Hughes recognized my handwriting and confiscated it, wondering why on earth I would be sending letters to the chauffeur. I shudder at the thought, but…no, no, I'm sure that didn't happen. If it had, I would have heard something by now; Papa would be furious and would waste no time in telling me so. Which leaves the very real possibility that it did in fact arrive and that it was in fact given to Branson and that he did in fact read it…and has chosen to ignore it, completely.

…_Or_ it arrived…but he wasn't there to receive it.

…

No, no, I refuse to think that. Once more, if it had arrived and he weren't there, I would have heard something by now; Carson would have opened it to see who it was from, or I would have received word that it never arrived—except I wouldn't have, because I didn't give a _bloody return address!_ Oh well done, Sybil, well done.

…

How strange is it, to sit here and think that I hope he's ignoring my letter, rather than accept the possibility that he never received it? At least I would know that he had read my words, and heard my apology—

Alright, I know, I didn't really "apologize"…but how could I? I'm not even sure I should apologize! And what, exactly, am I apologizing for? For…for not leaping up and down and cheering that he finally revealed, at least, what I have always wondered but was too afraid to find out? What I always…hoped…?

Oh foolish girl! YOU KNOW BETTER! This isn't one of Edith's novels; such unions can never be and _are never_ accepted! Never mind if you feel…

No, no, I can't think like that. I am determined! I will conquer this…this…this _madness_ that has momentarily turned me into a hopeless…romantic.

There, I said it—now dear heart, can we please move forward?

Lord, why am I rambling like this?

Anyway, despite my…confusion…and how strange it sounds, I truly do hope that he has at least read my letter…and has chosen to ignore me. I would rather have him there at Downton, ignoring my letter, than to discover that…that…

…That he's gone.

…

…

I awoke Susan again. She told me she heard sniffling. I lied and said I felt a cold coming on, to which she sweetly insisted on making me a cup of tea.

Dear Susan. She truly has been a wonderful friend. I honestly don't think I would have lasted this long without her! When we first met, I was sitting on the edge of my bed, trembling still from…from Branson's declaration. I was too stunned and too numb at the time that I hadn't had the chance to properly…react…to his news. That was when Susan entered the room, lugging a large trunk behind her, and greeting me with the cheeriest "Hello!" I've ever heard.

Susan is from Liverpool; her accent is very thick, but I think I finally have a grasp on it. I was so embarrassed, asking her to repeat herself on several occasions when we first met, but she didn't mind; she just laughed and spoke again, a little slower, before continuing on with her story. She's very good natured, and always cheerful. The only times she has shown otherwise is in front of Nurse Templeton, where she puts on a very serious face (but then we all do, for fear of her wrathful eye!), and in front of Jane Hamley.

Jane Hamley…even writing her name makes me groan! Jane comes from Leeds, along with several other girls, all working class. The "Leeds Girls" as Susan calls them. It seems from the first moment we caught one another's eye, Jane has bared a grudge towards me. On the first day of class, when Nurse Templeton called on me to answer a question, I was completely unprepared, and stuttered my answer. Jane found the entire situation hysterical, and despite the glare she received from Nurse Templeton for snickering at my voice, she and the rest of her gaggle have continued to tease, stuttering my name whenever I pass them by. "S-s-s-sybil C-c-c-crawley!"

Titles and family names have no meaning here. I could be the daughter of the King himself, and it wouldn't matter. Nurse Templeton refuses to offer special treatment for women of an aristocratic background, which in truth makes me very glad! All my life I felt smothered by my title—however, I wish for once I could use it to take Jane Hamley down a peg or two! Naturally, because Nurse Templeton has made it quite clear that no matter where you come from or who your parents are, she will not bow and scrape and speak softly to you—Jane and her flock feel they can do likewise.

The whole lot of them, plus a few other girls in our class, formed a close-knit study group. When I learned that several of the girls were putting a group together, I thought the idea was brilliant! What a clever way to learn and discuss everything we are reading and hearing in lecture and at the hospital! But Jane made it quite clear that I was unwelcome…and her sheep naturally followed, shunning me when I approached their table in the library that first night.

Interesting; apparently Jane has no qualm about treating me like an equal when it comes to cruel jokes and making fun…but when it comes to sitting and possibly studying together, I'm not welcome because I'm a—what was it that she called me? Oh yes, a "high born, pig nosed princess". And of course, the name wouldn't be complete without the snort.

What an awful first day! All that, plus the memory of Branson's words…it was too much! I ran back to my room and fell on the bed, a blubbering mass of tears, and feigned illness when it came time for chapel.

Susan found me, and her face was awash with concern. I didn't tell her the truth, simply said I was homesick, but she smiled kindly at me, and then made me a cup of tea…just as she has done this evening.

The next day, when "the Leeds Girls" stuttered my name, Susan's sweet smile vanished, and without warning, launched her fist back and popped Jane right in the eye!

To put it plainly, that shut them up!

Jane screamed in pain, making a bigger show out of the whole ordeal in an attempt to win sympathy, before turning and screaming at Susan, grabbing her hair and giving it a harsh tug! Susan cried out, and without a second thought, I found myself leaping into the fray, trying to push Jane off Susan, and when that wouldn't work, I threw Mama's lessons on how a lady should behave out the hypothetical window, and began clawing and scratching like an ally cat!

Nurse Templeton entered the room then and gave a loud bark, which ceased the squabble right away. She gave us all a fierce glare and an even fiercer warning that she would personally throw us out of York proper, if she got wind of any of us behaving in such a manner again. I must confess, however…I did bite my lip to keep from giggling when she grumbled, "the army should enlist you lot! Maybe then the bloody war would finally end." And I _really_ had to bite my lip when she told Jane to cease her sniveling.

They still continue to tease, but tread a little more carefully, especially when Susan turns and gives Jane a menacing glare. Indeed…thank God for Susan!

The two of us fare just fine without their snobbish study group. So far, we have both excelled during anatomy tests, and I no longer stutter my answers. In fact, I try my hardest to sit up straight and answer every question Nurse Templeton barks. And I'm glad that I can repay Susan for her kindness; she's dreadfully nervous about Nurse Templeton and truly believes that our instructor "has it in for her". But I try to reassure her, give her encouragement, and help as best I can when we study.

Susan is excited about the upcoming Christmas break. I say upcoming, even though in truth it's not for another three and a half weeks! I'm nervous about exams! But Susan is eager because James, her beau, will be on leave then.

Many of our evenings are spent with Susan telling me stories about James; I've never met the gentleman, but I feel like I have! He's tall, dark-haired, very good looking, according to Susan. He's in the Royal Navy, and wants to follow in his father's footsteps by building and designing ships. The two of them grew up side by side, and Susan confesses that she always had a crush on James, but thought him too handsome and mature to ever want a "pudgy, freckled, four-eyed nobody" like her. I think Susan is quite pretty, but she laughs off my compliments, telling me James says the same thing. Well, despite her personal feelings about how she looks, it's clear that James and I do see eye to eye, because according to Susan, he adores her and apparently has for years! It wasn't until he received his notice to enlist, back in March, that he finally made his feelings known. Apparently he had been working the nerve up to tell her for a number of years, but when the letter came, he realized he couldn't waste any more time in "beating around the bush", so marched right over to her doorstep, and instead of saying right out, "Susan, I love you"—he took her in his arms and kissed her!

…

I must confess…I have sometimes wondered…what if…what if Branson had done the same? What if…he chose to tell me of his feelings by…by _taking me in his arms_ and…and _kissing_ me, too?

…

It's probably just as well that he didn't. I…I…I don't know what I would have done if he had…

…

…

I miss him. I miss his voice, his laugh, his smile…I miss the way his eyes crinkle when he says something mischievous. I miss talking to him…I miss being with him. There are many, many things I miss about home, but…in truth, the thing I miss most is Branson.

And…I don't know what I'll do if I return and discover he's not there…

…

I'm also at an utter loss on what to do if I _do_ see him again. How should I behave? What should I say? What if he never writes back, and then he comes to pick me up just before Christmas…what should I do then? Oh Lord, help me.

I wish I could share Susan's enthusiasm about the Christmas break. I wish I had the answers to all these questions that keep bouncing around in my head, but sadly, no amount of study time will provide them for me.

But…I do wish, more than anything…that he would write back. Is that selfish of me? Stupid question, of course it is. I hate myself for that; I "want my cake and to eat it, too". I want Branson to forgive me and write me back and to remain at Downton for as long as possible…but…but I _can't_ return his affections, even if I wanted to!

…

And it's best to leave the rest of that matter unsaid.


	51. Downton to York: Branson's Letter

**Chapter Fifty-One**

Dear Sybil,

I must say, your letter came as quite a shock! I had not been expecting…

…

Dear Sybil,

Thank you for writing, but I'm afraid I can't…

…

…

Sybil,

What do you want me to say? Do you want me to pretend it didn't happen and take it all back? Because I can't…

…

…

Lady Sybil,

No, you are right—I have _never_ received a letter with an opening quite like the one you sent. So yes, you shocked me, indeed.

I still can't believe it, even after I reread your letter. _An actual body?_ Cut open and…and _everything_ exposed?

…

I like to think I'm no "light weight" when it comes to…to such things as you have described, but in truth, I have never seen anything quite like that. Perhaps in books, but…never in person! I'm surprised you were able to hold your stomach and keep a level head!

…

Not that I…!

I mean, I don't think you could handle…!

…Oh sod it. Forgive my coarseness, but I'm just digging myself into a deeper hole. What I mean, milady, is that I don't think I, or many others mind you, could do what you did—stand there and observe a dissected human body. I suppose I'm more of a light-weight than I'd care to admit.

Well, I can see what you mean about this Nurse Templeton, and how her teaching methods are…shall we say…rather unorthodox? At least compared to any teacher I ever had, but then I'm not the one in nursing school, so perhaps what she does, as aggressive at it sounds, is perfectly normal! But what are your numbers now? You said you began with 23 and are now down to 16? I think I may very well have been like this Gretchen you mentioned, as well as your roommate in dreading every time the head nurse looked my way! But of course, you admire her; you always manage to see the good in others, no matter how harsh they come across. Truly, once again, I stand in awe of you, Sybil Crawley—but there's nothing new about that.

…

…

I um…I'm sure you did very well on your exam. Clearly you were not the student that had the lowest grade, otherwise you would have returned by now, so well done on passing that! Did Nurse Templeton really dismiss the student with the lowest grade? Well, I'm sure you are excelling and putting all the other nurses to shame; there's no doubt in my mind about that.

The routine you described sounds extremely rigid, but I suppose it must be if they wish to turn all of you into proper, decent nurses within a two month span. Have there been other exams? How have those been? I am curious to learn more about what goes on at the hospital. You mentioned that sometime soon, you would each be assigned a specific nurse to follow and train under at the hospital. Has that happened yet? How has it been thus far? Have you…have you had to help with…with surgeries?

Good God, even talking about it has my stomach churning. Clearly, I am the lightest of light weights.

Now, about this business with the study group; why on earth have they excluded you? Begging your pardon, milady, but…what's wrong with _them?_ I would think any number of people would welcome your company, let alone realize how fortunate they were to have it. And I don't mean because you're the daughter of the Earl of Grantham, I just mean because…well, because you're…_you_: Sybil Crawley. I'm glad your roommate has been a friend to you, but clearly there is something wrong with those other girls, and I make no apologies for saying that.

As to your questions about Downton, things continue here as usual…

…

Um…yes, things continue. Your sister is excelling, and may very well be ready to drive without my aid.

…At least for a short distance.

Yes, word did arrive about a week ago from Gwen; did her letter reach you in York? She's doing fine, and as to your question of whether it's a boy or girl…the answer is both! She had twins! All are healthy and strong; she named the girl Anne, which as you can imagine had Anna blushing deeply at the news, and the boy's name is…Tom.

…

Poor lad; cursed with a name like that! I wouldn't wish it on anyone!

…

…

Well, um…oh, yes you asked about Bates. I'm afraid we haven't heard anything; I'm sure even if Mr. Carson learned something, he would tell Anna straight away. But no; no news here. Of course, we all try to remain optimistic and hope for the best. You would be proud of her though; despite everything that's happened, she continues to work hard and put a smile on for all of us, even though her pain is obvious if you look into her eyes…

…

…

Well…

I um…I'm afraid that's all the news I have to share from Downton. I'm sure your family is keeping you abreast of all that is happening. Mr. Matthew, as you know, has been back in France, but there is hope that he will be granted leave over Christmas. At least that's what Mr. Molesley tells us; he's been visiting quite a bit over the last few weeks. Mr. Carson believes it's because he's feeling "idle" without his "master to care for". However, Mrs. Hughes thinks differently, although she hasn't fully explained why she thinks this. I'm wondering if perhaps he wishes to take Bates' job? Right now, Mr. Carson and William have been alternating back and forth as your father's valet, but Carson has taken far too much on, and William…well, William is a fine footman, but a poor valet.

And as I said before, I'm afraid that's all the news I have. Not very exciting, I know, but how could it even begin to compare with all the fascinating things you're learning? With the exception of the dissected bodies…

…

Hmmm…I think I will pass on supper this evening.

Well, milady, I…I thank you for your letter. It was very kind.

…

…

I wish you the very best, and promise to pass on your wishes to Anna, William, and the others.

Goodbye,

—Tom Branson

* * *

><p><em>Please let me know what you think! Feedback = writing inspiration and motivation! THANKS!<em>


	52. Good News on a Bad Day

_THANK YOU to all the lovely reviews! I'm very touched by the kind words that were left, and I'm very happy that people are continueing to enjoy this story. I want to make a special shout-out to Syblime and who scolded me for having Branson end his letter by writing "Goodbye" ;o) I promised I had a reason, and you will see what I mean._

_This was a fun chapter to write; I always wondered what college life was like for Sybil, so I decided to explore that with this chapter. I hope you enjoy it too! And without further ado..._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Fifty-Two<strong>

Sybil was in a foul mood.

She needed to speak—no, _complain_—to Nurse Templeton about Nurse Andrews, her so-called "partner" at the hospital. "Partner—ha!" she muttered under her breath. "Slave driver is more like it."

Several weeks ago, Nurse Templeton had announced that each student would be assigned to work with a senior nurse at hospital, a nurse who would serve as their "partner", in training and overseeing and preparing them to one day become senior nurses themselves. Sybil was assigned to Nurse Andrews, a woman whom she had seen on many occasions, working specifically with the patients who were recent amputees. She remembered admiring Nurse Andrews, admiring her strength and calmness as she reassured these men who were mourning over their missing limbs. So when the assignment was announced, she was elated, and eagerly arrived a half-hour early for her shift at the hospital, anxious to learn and work with someone whom she had such high regard for.

Sadly, it didn't take long for that regard to begin plummeting.

Nurse Andrews looked at Sybil as if she were a beetle, crawling across one's sheets. For the first three days of their partnership, Nurse Andrews had Sybil do nothing but empty, clean, and empty again, all the chamber pots. Then, she had Sybil bleach, starch, and iron every bed sheet, and if she weren't satisfied with how they looked, she would send Sybil back to do them all over again. Sybil finally hoped that she would be learning something beyond cleaning a patient's sheets and chamber pot, when Nurse Andrews announced the other day that she would need her help in the hospital bathing room. She knew it was important to keep patients clean, and had helped Nurse Templeton with sponge-bathing a patient several weeks ago. But no, apparently Nurse Andrews wanted her to scrub the six bathing tubs until they sparkled…while she and a few other senior nurses had a cigarette break.

"Cleanliness is next to Godliness, _milady_," Nurse Andrews sweetly, and sarcastically, murmured as she thrust the sponge and bucket into Sybil's arms. Oh, if her eyes were daggers, Nurse Andrews would be clutching her back in pain!

Sybil scrubbed the bathing tubs all day, working her fingers raw in trying to get every last piece of dirt and blood and excrement off its surfaces. She missed supper because of her work (Nurse Andrews wouldn't allow her to leave until all six tubs were finished), but upon arriving that afternoon at the hospital, Nurse Andrews was standing at the door, waiting for her and holding the bucket and sponge.

"That was a piss-poor job, Crawley," Nurse Andrews muttered, while blowing cigarette smoke into Sybil's shocked face. "Three of those tubs I wouldn't wash a dog in." She thrust the bucket and sponge back into Sybil's arms. "Do it right, or I'll report your laziness to Nurse Templeton."

"Laziness!" Sybil sputtered, her shock giving way to frustration and anger.

"Aye," Nurse Andrews spat, throwing her cigarette butt on the ground, at Sybil's foot. "This isn't Downton Abbey, _milady_—no servants here to clean up your messes. Now do it right or I'll go and find Nurse Templeton and report you now!"

She turned on her heel, leaving a fuming Sybil in her wake. To make matters worse, Jane Hamley and her gaggle walked past her, giggling and murmuring, "poor little princess," in voices that held anything but sympathy.

Oh she wanted to scream!

Truly, for the first time since coming to York, she found herself questioning why she was there; what madness had taken control and brought her to this…this…this hellhole?

She scrubbed the tubs…again…and because Nurse Andrews didn't specify which three she thought were poor condition, she ended up scrubbing all six once more. She scrubbed until her nails were whittled to the quick and there were fat, ugly blisters on her fingers.

"Crawley!"

She jumped at the sound of her name echoing off the walls in the small, tiled room. She didn't have to turn around, she knew Nurse Templeton's bark from anywhere.

"What on earth are you doing?"

Sybil stared at the woman, thinking it was quite obvious to what she was doing. "I…I'm cleaning the tubs—"

"I can see that!" Nurse Templeton bellowed, looking frustrated and annoyed. "But why aren't you with Nurse Andrews?"

Confusion washed over Sybil's face, and she opened her mouth to answer, but the problem was…she had no answer to offer. "I…I was told—"

"Nurse Andrews has been working, _all by herself_, with changing patient's dressings for the past two hours! When I found her, I asked her why she didn't have _you_ there to help her, and she told me to find you here!"

Sybil's head was swimming. Did Nurse Templeton understand that she was here under Nurse Andrews' orders? "I was told—"

"Yes, yes, I know! To wash the tubs, a job that should have been finished _yesterday_, if I understand Nurse Andrews' notes. But here I find you…instead of with her! I had to pull Hamley away from her partner to help Nurse Andrews, and I do not like having my schedule changed or interrupted," she growled, her eyes dark, narrow slits as she glared at Sybil. "Now…finish your work and return to Nurse Andrews at once!" she turned to leave, before pausing and then looking over her shoulder once more. "I expected more from you, Crawley." And with that, she left.

Sybil sat there with her mouth hanging open for…God only knows how long. With the little shreds of bruised pride she still had, she pulled herself to her feet, gathered her cleaning supplies with aching fingers, and left the bathing room to go and find her so-called partner, knowing that a gleeful reprimand would be waiting for her, possibly followed by some more of Jane's cruel teasing.

"There you are," Nurse Andrews muttered when Sybil finally found her. She didn't even bother to lift her eyes from the patient to whose leg she was bandaging. "Well, those tubs better be gleaming if it took you an entire afternoon to clean them," she grumbled. Sybil closed her eyes and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming. "Thank goodness that Hamley girl was nearby to help…she will make a great nurse one day…unlike some people."

So many things sprang to Sybil's mind then. "Well then you can have her!" was one thing she wanted to shout. Another was to simply grab Nurse Andrews by the ends of her headscarf, and dunk her head in the patient's overflowing chamber pot. But before she could say or act on any of the things that were running through her mind, Nurse Andrews muttered, "That is all, Crawley," and with a wave of her hand, she dismissed her.

Sybil didn't hesitate. What point was there to linger and attempt to get into the woman's good graces? She had no graces to give! So she marched out of the hospital, ripping her own headscarf off in the process, not caring that her hair was flying loose and free behind her, and went directly to the dormitory, fuming and muttering things the entire way.

Susan was there when she arrived.

"Oh, I _hate_ her!" Sybil growled, slamming the door behind her. "She's the worst…worst…oh, it's an insult to the profession to call her a nurse!" she threw her hands up in the air and began pacing the room, feeling too angry to sit still. "She was waiting for me, Susan, _waiting for me_—with a bucket and sponge in hand, telling me that I didn't do a good enough job in cleaning those tubs, that I needed to clean them again…and then she complains that I'm neglecting my duties to her when Nurse Templeton finds her all alone! Oh, she _conveniently_ neglected to mention that I was scrubbing those tubs on _her_ orders, but instead, Nurse Templeton finds me and reprimands me…and told me that of all people, she had Jane Hamley help Nurse Andrews! _JANE HAMLEY!_ And can you believe that Nurse Andrews had the _gall_ to accuse me of _laziness?_ Oh yes, I'm the lazy one, cleaning chamber pots, bed sheets, and bathing tubs while she goes out and has a cigarette practically every hour—"

Sybil paused in her rant when she realized Susan was being unusually quiet. Susan was a sweet girl, but she wasn't one to hide her displeasure. And the two of them would often unburdened themselves with one another after a hard day at the hospital, each gasping and muttering while the other told her story.

But Susan hadn't responded to anything Sybil had said. She didn't gasp, she didn't mutter agreement or show signs of shock and outrage…she didn't even try to say anything to calm Sybil down. Instead, she was lying across her bed, holding a piece of paper…with trembling fingers.

"Susan?" Sybil whispered, slowly moving to her friend's side. Susan finally lifted her head, and Sybil's eyes widened at ashen color of her skin…and the red blotches under her eyes. "Oh God, Susan…what's wrong?"

Susan swallowed the lump in her throat, before holding the letter out to Sybil, her fingers trembling even harder. "It's…it's James…" she managed to whisper, before a soft sob escaped her throat.

_Oh no._ Sybil took the letter and felt her own heart plummet at Susan's revelation. James, who Sybil felt she knew so well based on everything Susan had told her; a man who had hoped to one day meet…and perhaps congratulate at his and Susan's wedding. The very man whom Susan was eagerly counting down the days to their Christmas holiday, so she could be reunited with him once more…

_ No, not James._

Sybil took a deep breath and began reading the letter, telling herself to be strong because that was what her friend needed right now. Her eyes scanned the opening lines, realizing that the letter was coming from James' mother. And as she read those lines, her heart racing rapidly…she began to realize…

"Oh…oh Susan_, he's alive!"_

Sybil turned to Susan, relief flooding her features. But her smile quickly vanished as Susan turned her head into her pillow and began crying anew. "R-r-read on…" she moaned between sobs.

Sybil was confused, but turned her attention back the letter and continued reading…and then finally realized why Susan was so upset.

_…James was severely injured…nearly drowned from the explosion…a piece of metal struck him in the eye…had to remove his right eye…may suffer permanent blindness in his left, but only time will tell…_

She finished reading the letter, the last lines revealing that for the time being, James was being held in a hospital in London, unsure exactly when he would be well enough to journey north to Liverpool.

"Oh Susan…" she sighed, putting the letter down and turning back to her roommate. Susan sniffled and lifted her head away from the pillow, her eyes and cheeks swollen from her tears. Sybil reached out and took one of Susan's hands, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "He's alive."

Susan bit her lip to keep the sob from escaping. "But he's _blind_, Sybil! And it was his dream to build ships! How can he do that, blind? Who would hire a blind shipbuilder?"

Sybil nibbled her lip and looked back at the letter. "But…but his sight could return to his left eye…"

Susan shook her head, her expression one full of despair and hopelessness. "His mother says 'only time will tell'; it's more likely that he _will be_ blind—"

"Which means there's still a chance that he won't be," Sybil said with determination. "Mrs. Patmore—the cook at my home; two years ago she began to suffer from blindness, but my father found a doctor in London, an eye specialist, who was able to help her…and now, she sees as good as before!"

Susan's expression began to change, and Sybil could see a glimmer of hope. "What…what are you saying?"

Sybil grinned. "I'm saying that I _will_ write to my father, tell him about James, and see that this same doctor can find him in London, and help him with _regaining_ his sight!"

Susan bolted upright, her eyes wide and her mouth open. "Do you…you really think that…that he will?"

"Yes!" Sybil grinned. "I'll explain it to him and make sure that he does!"

"Oh Sybil!" Joy flooded Susan's face, and with a happy squeal, she threw her arms around Sybil and hugged her tight, crying anew, but this time for a very different reason. "Oh Sybil, thank you! Thank you!"

Sybil grinned, hugging her friend back, truly feeling happy for the first time since she came to York. If the frustration and humiliation of the last few weeks under Jane Hamley and Nurse Andrews was the price she had to pay in helping Susan, then so be it. This alone, made the journey to York worth it.

"Oh Sybil, truly…thank you! I confess, I was having a terrible day, and then to come back and see this letter…"

Sybil couldn't help but laugh. "Oh Lord, Susan, I can understand completely. But I think this makes up for it."

Susan grinned and nodded her head. "Indeed. Oh, you were saying something about that horrid Nurse Andrews—tell me, what happened exactly?"

Sybil opened her mouth to reply, but then closed it, allowing a soft, thoughtful smile to spread across her face. "You know…it doesn't matter. Let's get go to the dining hall, and then retreat to our corner of the library; I'll begin writing Papa's letter there."

Susan giggled and nodded her head, but then paused as she rose from the bed. "Oh! I completely forgot! I'm sorry, Sybil, but this came for you," she went to her dressing table, where a single envelope lay.

Sybil smiled, holding her hand out for the letter. "It must be from Mama; I can't imagine Gwen receiving my reply so quickly."

A mischievous grin appeared on Susan's face. "Well…you're partially right; it is from Downton…but not from your mother…" she waved the letter in front of Sybil, her grin only growing more and more.

Sybil looked confused. "From Downton, but not from…" realization slowly began to dawn. _No…it couldn't be…could it?_

Susan giggled. "Now Sybil…just who is _Mr. T. Branson?"_

Sybil's knees practically buckled beneath her. "B-B-Branson?" she stuttered, a mixture of shock, anxiety, and relief washing over her face.

Susan nodded her head, turning the envelope over in her hands. "That's what the return address says. Now answer my question—"

She was cut off by Sybil snatching the letter from her fingers. "He replied…" she whispered, more to herself than to her roommate.

Susan was prepared to tease Sybil for her anxiousness to read the letter, but noticed the way Sybil's fingers trembled as she held the envelope, as if someone had given her a priceless treasure that would break if she weren't careful. She also noticed the rapid rise and fall of Sybil's chest, and the deep blush that was creeping up Sybil's neck, and flooding her face. "Sybil? Is…is everything alright?"

Sybil's head snapped up. "What? Oh! Yes, yes…everything's fine…"

Susan lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "Well…aren't you going to open it?"

Sybil looked back down at the envelope, her throat suddenly feeling very dry. "I…" she paused, unsure what to say or do. She desperately wanted to read Branson's note, but she was also terrified to do so. What if it was filled with curses, telling her to "shove off" and leave him be? Could she blame him? Or worse…what if it was him telling her he was leaving? That when she returned to Downton at Christmas…he wouldn't be there?

"Alright Sybil, you're worrying me," Susan scolded. "Who is this T. Branson? Is it…I mean, is he someone bad?"

Once more, Sybil's head snapped up. "Oh no! No, no, he's not—"

"Ah ha, I knew it!" Susan grinned, flopping down on her bed and curling her feet in, like a child awaiting to hear a story. "Tell me all about him! Is he your beau? And if so, why haven't you said anything before!"

Sybil's face suddenly felt very hot. "He's…he's _not_ my beau…"

Susan didn't seem convinced. "Well, if that's true, he certainly is _something_ to you…" she began grinning again. "Let me guess; he's someone you've known since childhood, someone you've admired for many, many years, but as far as you're aware, has never taken notice of you before…at least not in the way you want to be noticed."

Sybil's blushing only increased. "No! It's nothing like that, I mean…I…I haven't known him all my life, only the last few years, and…while yes, I do admire him—NOT IN THAT WAY!" she cried as Susan threw back her head and laughed, while pointing an accusing finger at her friend.

"Oh defend yourself all you want, Sybil, but anyone can see that you most certainly _do_ admire him…_IN _that way!"

Sybil's lips began to pout, and her face only grew hotter and redder. "I…I…you don't understand," she groaned in frustration. "I…I mean, he and I…_we can't…"_ her voice trailed off, confusion and irritation over the whole matter raging in both her head, and her heart.

Susan's giggling began to slow at Sybil's words. "Can't?" she repeated. "What do you mean, you can't…" suddenly realization hit her. "Oh! You mean…it's _forbidden?"_ she gasped, and Sybil groaned as a light of excitement lit Susan's eyes. "Oh, that is delicious!"

"Susan…"

"Let me see if I can guess!" she clapped with glee. "Alright, alright, um…he's the son of a nearby lord whom your father has had a falling out with over the last few years?"

Sybil just made a face.

"No, no, you're right, not juicy enough," Susan tapped her fingers on her cheek. "Oh! He's a business partner to your father! Handsome, intelligent, and ever-so-slightly mature for your age…"

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Susan, please—"

"Oh I'm just warming up!" Susan giggled. "Alright, not a neighboring lord or a business partner, but…let me see, oh! I know, he works for your father—"

Sybil's gasp revealed too much. Susan's eyes widened and her grin only grew bigger.

"Ah ha! That's it! He works for your father! Of course, why didn't I realize? What is he, a banker? Your father's lawyer?" she looked at Sybil for any confirmation, but when she saw none, her brow only creased with confusion. "What else could there be? Unless he's the butler…" her voice trailed off, and she could see Sybil stiffen, ever so slightly. "Oh Lord…the butler?"

"Oh heavens no!" Sybil groaned, stomping her foot in frustration. "Carson is old enough to be my grandfather!"

"But I am right, though, aren't I? Not about the butler, I mean, but…he's a servant…isn't he?"

Sybil couldn't look Susan in the eye. It didn't matter, because Susan had put all the pieces together. "Oh Sybil…" she murmured. "How…how…" Sybil glanced up then. "How…ROMANTIC!"

Sybil stared at Susan with disbelief. "Romantic?"

"YES!" Susan gasped, grinning broadly. "Oh, it's just like Romeo and Juliet!"

Sybil didn't like the sound of that. She knew how that play ended.

"Oh, please, tell me all about him? Is he handsome? I'm sure he is. How old is he? Is he a footman? A gardener? Or um…what do they call them…a man's personal servant..."

"Valet?"

"YES! Is he a valet? OH! _Is he your father's valet?"_ she gasped, shocked by the whole revelation, but eager to learn more.

Sybil sighed and shook her head. "No, he's none of those…" did she dare reveal _everything_ to Susan? Not simply who Branson was, but…but _everything_, including the last interaction she had with him right outside her dormitory? "He's simply…my friend."

Now it was Susan who made a face. "Oh come now, Sybil—"

"Branson is my friend, and that's all there is to it," she said matter-of-factly. "I'm sorry if that disappoints you, Susan, but that is the fact."

Susan rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Fine, I'll concede defeat…for now." She rose and crossed the room to the door. "I'll leave you in peace to read your letter from your Mr. T. Branson who clearly means more to you than you're willing to admit." Sybil opened her mouth to protest, but Susan only poked her tongue out, and then laughed as she shut the door, leaving Sybil once more to ponder the confusion of her heart.

She looked down at the envelope once more, its weight feeling unbearable. "Oh sod it," she swore, before tearing into it and pulling the letter out. She wasn't going to let Susan's words get the better of her. She had been longing to hear from Branson for weeks, and had more or less accepted that he wasn't going to reply. She should be feeling elated, just as she had felt when she was able to offer Susan some hope.

She sat on the edge of her bed, and began to read Branson's words, a small smile spreading across her face, as she imagined his beautiful, Irish brogue, reading them to her.

Her heart raced with each word. A laugh escaped her throat, while every so often a blush would darken her cheeks. She bit her lip at certain words, and felt her mouth go dry at others. She continued reading and reading…her brow furrowing as she drew closer and closer to the end…and then her fingers were gripping the letter, threatening to tear the paper as she reached that single word, just before his name.

Goodbye.

What on earth did he mean by that? He had never ended a letter to her with "goodbye" before! What was he trying to say? Was…oh God…was this his way of…of telling her he was _leaving_ Downton?

Sybil bolted up from the bed, and then quickly moved to her desk, grabbing a piece of paper and her pen, and immediately began writing. She didn't care if she missed supper for a second night in a row, or if her absence sparked more questions from Susan; she had to find out if her worst fears were coming true.

"Please Tom…I know I'm a selfish creature for asking, but please…don't leave, not like this…" she prayed as she began to write.

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><p><em>Eeep! What did she write? Thanks for reading! Please leave a review if you can!<em>


	53. York to Downton: Sybil's 2nd Letter

_WOW! Thanks for the lovely thoughts and reviews! It was so nice seeing so many replies, I truly appreciate it! I hope you continue to enjoy, as now we read Sybil's letter...which will build up to when the two finally see one another *since* she left for York...dun, dun, dun! Thanks for reading! _

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><p><strong>Chapter Fifty-Three<strong>

Branson,

What do you mean, "goodbye"? How can you say that? I mean, how can you end a letter like that? What does that mean? Are you leaving? I thought you said you weren't—well, alright, you never promised to stay, but…but I thought…

I don't know what I thought…or what I even think…I'm so confused…

…

…

…

Dear Branson,

Well…I think I must say that I am glad I shocked you with my letter; I'm glad that I surprised you, because your letter certainly surprised me! What kept you from writing? I've been waiting so many weeks, wondering…

…

…

Dear Branson,

I miss you…

…

Dear Branson,

Thank you for replying. It's so good to hear from you, I truly mean that. In fact, your letter couldn't have arrived at a better time.

Things have been very…hectic…here, at the college. I have been working very hard, spending a bulk of my afternoons at the hospital, working with...my partner. Her name is Nurse Andrews.

…

Was my tone that obvious? I'm sure you could hear my disdain. Oh Branson, she's…she's…oh! I don't know where to begin, other than saying that I find the woman infuriating! It's very kind of you to say that I find good in others, but I can't seem to find any in her—and I've tried! Nurse Andrews is a hard task-master (slave driver would be more like it); I'm supposed be learning under her, learning how to be a good and proper nurse, and over the past few weeks since we started this so-called "partnership", she's had me doing nothing but cleaning!

Ugh…how petulant did that sound?

I _do_ understand that cleanliness is important when dealing with patients, so it's not so much that I dislike cleaning…but I dislike that so far, that is _all_ I am doing! I haven't worked with her on a patient—I haven't had _any_ interaction with patients at all! I'm a glorified maid.

…Oh Lord, listen to me. No doubt I sound like a squealing child, having a tantrum because she's not getting her way.

The truth is…when I think about it…despite all that is happening, and how much I dislike Nurse Andrews (and those Leeds girls I mentioned in my previous letter), I still don't regret coming here. I have learned so much, under Nurse Templeton and the other instructors. I still feel like I'm making a little bit of a difference…I just wish I could make _more_. Does that sound selfish? Or worse…ungrateful?

I'm afraid I don't have any more "exciting" stories about dissected bodies for you; oh forgive me, Branson, I can't help but giggle a little! But please rest assured…I don't think you are a "lightweight"; it's perfectly normal to feel a tad squeamish when discussing such things, let alone being around them. I suppose that makes me the abnormal one!

Indeed, I did do very well on my last exam, thank you for asking! And no, Nurse Templeton took pity on poor Helen, the girl with the lowest score. However, Helen did have to write an extensive essay for Nurse Templeton. Perhaps a punishment worse than being "tossed out" of school? But it will be quite a while before I can breathe easy; we have exams just before our Christmas holiday, and then there are our hospital evaluations and final exams in January! Oh Lord, I am dreading those! I have been staying in the library for as long as I can every evening, trying to soak up as much knowledge as I can…because heaven knows I'm not receiving it from Nurse Andrews!

Susan, my roommate, has been both a wonderful study partner, as well as a wonderful friend. Thank you, by the way, for what you said about…well, not to sound haughty, but those other girls really have been bothersome! Oh the stories I could share—why, they could possibly fill a book! But perhaps I will whet your appetite with this? (And you mustn't tell a soul!)

…I got into a fight with one of them. A _proper_, physical fight!

There, that's all I'm going to say! You'll just have to wait until Christmas to hear the rest!

…

…

I am looking forward to Christmas, to returning to Downton. I…I really do miss it, despite all my complaints in the past about feeling "smothered" by it. Well, I don't miss the smothered feeling, but…I do miss my family (even Granny), and my friends—I miss Anna, and…and I miss you.

…

That's why I'm so glad you wrote back. I suppose I never realized how hard it would be, being away from…well, from everything that is familiar. But I am still glad I came, please, don't misunderstand me, I just…I…well, as I said, I'm glad you wrote. I've missed talking to you…I miss hearing your voice, and…well, yes, I even miss you teasing me. There, I said it. Now don't let it go to your head!

…

My friend, Susan, received distressing news this afternoon; her beau, James, was wounded. He lost an eye and may suffer permanent blindness in the other, but I am determined to write to Papa, begging him if need be, to contact that eye specialist he found for Mrs. Patmore two years ago, and see if he can arrange for that doctor to meet with Susan's beau. He's at some hospital in London; I'll find out where and then set to writing that letter later tonight.

Susan is probably wondering where I am; she left me to read your letter. Oh Lord, what she said…

…

I…well…um…it doesn't matter what she said, actually. Nothing important, I mean…nothing worth repeating…foolish talk, really, or rather…foolish "girl talk"…nothing you would be interested in hearing; like I said, nothing worth repeating—which I already said, which means I'm rambling…

I hope this letter finds you at Downton! I must say, I didn't know what to make of your closing remarks.

I mean, I am very happy to hear that all is well there; I'm glad Matthew will be on leave at Christmas, but sorry to hear that there is still no word from Bates. And yes, I did receive word from Gwen! Isn't it wonderful? Twins! But she didn't tell me their names—how sweet! Anne and Tom; and I don't know what you're talking about; Tom is a wonderful name…

…

Well, anyway, as I said, I _do_ hope this letter finds you at Downton; I…I truly do hope that in a few weeks, when I come home for Christmas, I will see you…yes?

Please write me back; please, I don't care if it's only a few sentences, just…please, write me.

Thank you.

—Sybil


	54. No Place Like Home for the Holidays

_Look out, it's a long one! I started writing this chapter and couldn't stop; I wasn't satisfied with any of the potential "stopping points", and so kept going and going until finally I realized it was past midnight and was nearly at 13 pages...so I did my best to resolve the issues of this chapter, and ta da! You have Sybil's holiday break from college (sort of). _

_THANKS AGAIN to all the wonderful reviews! I appreciate all the feedback, truly, and I'm glad people are enjoying this possible view into Sybil's college experience. Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think! Thanks again!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Fifty-Four<strong>

He hadn't written back.

There had been several occasions when Sybil thought perhaps that he had, occasions when her body froze and her breath caught in her throat and her hands trembled as they opened the envelopes…

But no, none of the letters that came from Downton bore either his name or his handwriting.

She had received three letters total, since mailing her second letter to Branson. Two of them were from her father, the first in response to her request about finding the eye specialist to whom Mrs. Patmore had visited two years ago. He was very confused by her request, and wrote that he was unsure if the doctor still kept an office in London, let alone if he were still practicing. But she wrote him again, begging him to find out, telling him it was a matter of life or death! His second letter was one that filled Sybil with relief; not only had her father found the doctor, but even offered to help James' family if they needed money for an operation. Sybil wasted no time in reading the letter to Susan, who burst into joyful tears right there in the college library.

Days passed since those letters, and Sybil began to worry. Surely Branson would have received her letter by now?

Once again she had left no return address…but she hoped like before, he would have recognized her handwriting and opened it without hesitation. Perhaps the War was slowing the exchange of mail?

But her heart sank with each day that passed. Even Susan, who had teased her mercilessly in the beginning, had begun to look upon Sybil with sympathy every time the post arrived…and brought no further reply.

She thought she would cry when her third letter from Downton arrived…and discovered it was from her mother.

_One more week, my darling! One more week and then you will be here and we can truly celebrate the joy of Christmastide!_

One more week…

The days leading up to the college's Christmas holiday were some of the longest and most wearisome Sybil had ever faced in her entire life. The stress was unlike anything she had ever encountered. Every evening was spent in the library, studying until the librarian told her it was time to leave (and often she had to be told twice). While her final exams and evaluations weren't for another month, she still had several papers to write, as well as one long test to take the day before the holiday break. She was nervous; her sleep was fitful, her appetite barely there, and her mood—well, Jane Hamley got a taste of it when she attempted to make a snide comment and Sybil turned, snapping back and calling her a…well, a word that no proper daughter of an English noble would dare say (or should even know) but that she had heard several soldiers use when jesting with one another at the hospital.

Indeed, a letter from Branson would have been very helpful, both in easing her stress as well as lightening her spirits. But because she had received no word, she began to worry, once again, if he were even at Downton! _What had he meant when he had finished his letter with "goodbye"?_ The lack of knowledge was only making her stress worse.

"Why don't you write to him again?" Susan murmured one evening, while they were in the library.

Sybil blushed at her friend's suggestion but pretended she hadn't heard.

Susan sighed and shook her head. "It doesn't take a fully-trained nurse to see that you're only making yourself sicker with all this worrying."

It took a great deal of willpower for Sybil not to snap at Susan; she didn't want to take her bad mood out on her only friend. No, instead she imagined railing her anger at Branson. _How could you? How could you do this to me? How could you put me through this…this…this wringer of emotions? Don't you know the stress I'm under? Didn't you hear the desperation in my voice when I wrote to you? All I asked was for a few words! Why couldn't you send me just a few words? _

This was often a rant that her imagination played out, especially when the stress felt so great that she wanted to throw back her head and scream. Sometimes that rant would take a different direction. _Don't you know that it's impossible to…to…to be _anything_ more than what we are? How could you ask me that? Why did you wait until NOW to tell me how you really felt? What do you want me to say? The truth? I CAN'T! Even if I wanted to, you know that I can't!_

When she wasn't studying, taking notes during lecture, or going about her tasks at the hospital, she imagined what she would do if she ever saw Branson again. Sometimes, she was treating him coldly, not speaking to him and ignoring his presence completely. She imagined paying him back by going out and finding some handsome officer to flirt with, right in front of him. But despite her anger, she always felt a shadow of guilt for even contemplating such a thing. Other times, she imagined him pulling the car up to the drive outside the dormitory, and her just rushing forward, and before he even knew what had happened, pulling her fist back and punching him, HARD, on the nose—and hopefully breaking it! Then, while he cradled his bleeding nose, she would shout curses at him and call him all those names she had learned while working at the hospital. That would show him! That would make him look twice at her! Gone would be his view of her as a "lovely, angelic creature to which he wanted to marry", replaced with a fiery hellion whose wrath he should fear! He would certainly wish he had left Downton then!

…But, if she were completely honest with herself…she wasn't sure that she wanted him to change his mind about her.

And then there were times…when she imagined something completely different. Where he pulled the car up…and instead of giving him the cold shoulder or throwing her fist back and punching his nose…she would rush forward and throw her arms around him, cursing him for making her worry, but crying for joy at having him once more by her side.

She didn't like that imagining very much; probably because out of all of them…it was the closest to the truth.

"So tell me!" Susan asked one evening, after they had returned to their room and were preparing for bed. "What is Christmas at Downton Abbey like?"

Sybil was a little startled by the question. Christmas at Downton; it was hard to believe that the holiday was so close. "Well…usually my Aunt Rosamond comes up from London to join us; we attend church in the morning, and then exchange gifts and have luncheon in the drawing room while the servants have their feast downstairs."

"You don't have a grand dinner?"

Sybil shook her head. "Our Christmas dinner actually takes place on Christmas Eve; the servants have Christmas Day and News Year Day to themselves."

"Oh," Susan replied, her brow crinkling a bit. "I would have thought that was what Boxing Day was for."

Sybil could understand Susan's confusion. "Christmas at Downton is a little different from other estates. That's just how we've always done it…" she frowned as she said those words. That sounded like something her grandmother would say. "We do give our gifts to the servants on Boxing Day, though."

Susan smiled at that. "But what about parties? Don't you have…oh you know, grand balls?"

Sybil gave a weak smile. "No; I'm afraid the reality isn't as grand as one would imagine. Well, unless you count the Servant's Ball."

Susan's head perked up at this. "Servant's Ball?"

Sybil nodded. "Yes, although we're refraining from them because of the War. But it's a tradition that…well, I don't know when it started exactly, but on Twelfth Night, we have a ball where the servants dress up in their best clothes, and we mingle and dance and eat delicious cakes—"

"You _dance_ with the servants?" Susan interrupted, her eyes glowing. Sybil inwardly groaned; she knew exactly where this was leading…

"Susan—"

"Have you danced with _him_ at this ball?" Susan gleefully asked, looking like a child ready to gobble up a delicious story.

A deep, crimson blush colored Sybil's cheeks. "N-n-n-no," she stammered, avoiding Susan's mischievous gaze. It wasn't a complete lie. No, she hadn't danced with Branson _at the Servant's Ball,_ but…there had been last Christmas, in the garage…when the two of them mysteriously found their arms around one another…

Susan simply giggled. She knew better than push Sybil on the issue, but Sybil could feel her roommate's playful eyes as she buried her face back into her hospital notes, pretending to study.

Finally, the final day of classes before the holiday break arrived. After taking her test and handing in her papers to Nurse Templeton, Sybil took a deep breath and told the head nurse her displeasure with Nurse Andrews, and how she had been given little opportunity to work with any of the patients. True, since the "bathing tub incident", Nurse Andrews was now allowing Sybil to watch her while she prepared dressings and changed bandages, but if Sybil dared to open her mouth to ask a question or worse, speak to a patient, Nurse Andrews would shush her and reprimand her by saying her job was to observe and take notes, _nothing more_. Nurse Templeton listened without interruption, but the harsh angles of her face never lightened from the perpetual scowl she always seemed to wear.

"Tell me, Crawley," Nurse Templeton finally spoke, when Sybil had finished. "What is the duty of a nurse?"

Sybil was momentarily thrown by the question. "To…to care for the sick and wounded."

"Exactly," Nurse Templeton replied. Still, she wore no smile or any sign of pleasure in Sybil's answer. "Being a nurse is far more than what those silly magazines display," she practically spat, her voice clearly filled with annoyance. "It's more than serving cool drinks or reading a mother's letter to a man who's lost both his eyes. That is how 'polite society' sees nurses—the image that the aristocracy wants to have, of our kind."

Sybil flinched a little at Nurse Templeton's words. Was she still viewed as an "intruder" of the aristocracy? Was she not included in Nurse Templeton's "kind"?

"But…" Nurse Templeton continued. "Being a nurse is also more than what you, and other girls with your passion, think as well."

Sybil was surprised by the head nurse's words; it was the closest thing to a compliment she had ever heard the woman say!

"Being a nurse is more than dressing wounds, changing bandages, and even assisting doctors in surgeries. As you know, very well by now, a great deal of what a nurse does is not the sort of thing magazines would ever dream of displaying. Nor is it the sort of thing that people would praise and sing songs about, when attempting to reach out and recruit young women with a passion to make a difference. You said so yourself; being a nurse is about caring for the sick and wounded…and wouldn't you agree that making sure these men have clean surroundings, from the sheets on their bed to the chamber pots beneath, is a form of care?"

Sybil nodded her head, feeling very humbled. "Yes, Nurse Templeton."

Nurse Templeton actually smiled then. A stiff smile—but a smile, nonetheless. "Good. That will be all, Crawley." Even though Sybil had been the one to request the conversation, she gave a quick curtsy to the head nurse's dismissal.

"And have a Happy Christmas," Nurse Templeton murmured, not looking up from the papers on her desk.

"Thank you," Sybil replied. "And Happy Christmas to you as well." She didn't hesitate further; she quickly left before Nurse Templeton decided to dismiss her completely from the college.

She returned to the dormitory then, changed into her traveling clothes, and then lugged her trunk down the dormitory steps…all by herself, just as she had done when she first arrived back in November.

Susan was also standing on the drive, just outside the building. "Oh! How did it go?" she asked, seeing Sybil. Sybil had told her that she would speak to Nurse Templeton about how Nurse Andrews had been treating her before leaving.

Sybil gave a shrug of her shoulders, to which Susan made a face. "Oh Sybil—"

"It's alright, really," Sybil reassured. "In fact…I think things will be better when I return."

Susan smiled and put her arm around Sybil's shoulders. "Oh I know I've gone on and on these last few weeks about how I couldn't wait until the break, to travel to London and see James…but I _will_ miss you."

Sybil smiled and turned to give Susan a hug as well. "Me too," she sighed. "In fact…I must confess…there is a part of me that wishes I were staying here."

"Oh Sybil," Susan looked at her friend with sympathy. "It won't be so bad; I'm sure—"

Her words were interrupted by the sound of a horn honking in their direction. Both women looked towards the car that was approaching them—approaching them a little too quickly—and gave a yelp followed by a quick jump back onto the curb, as Lord Grantham's Rolls-Royce came to a screeching stop in front of them.

"Happy Christmas, little sister!" Edith grinned, pushing the driving goggles up onto her forehead. She was completely unaware that she had momentarily terrified the other two women with her erratic breaking.

"Edith?" Sybil gasped, still trying to get her heartbeat back to normal.

Edith grinned. "Surprise!" she laughed. "I drove all the way from Downton! See how far I've come since you last saw me?"

Indeed. Although it was clear, as Branson had once joked, that Edith still needed some help with understanding the importance of _slowing down_, before breaking.

Branson…

_Edith_ had driven up from Downton. _Edith_ was her driver. Sybil felt her heart break into a thousand pieces. So much for her many imaginings on how she would greet Branson. And even though there had been a part of her that had resigned herself to this reality…it still hurt to accept.

She tried very hard to hide her disappointment. "I see! Well…well, well done! And um…will you be driving us back to Downton?" she asked, a little uneasily.

Edith, however, didn't seem to notice. "Of course!"

Susan leaned forward and whispered into Sybil's ear, "You'll be in my prayers."

Sybil nodded her head in thanks. She had a feeling she would need every one of them. "Well Edith, as chauffeur, would you mind helping me put this trunk in the back?" Sybil asked, attempting to lift the heavy piece of luggage on its end.

Edith laughed. "Oh Sybil, things haven't changed _that_ much."

Sybil's brow furrowed and she opened her mouth to question Edith's words, but all thought and speech escaped her…when a familiar Irish brogue filled her ears…

"I'll take care of that, milady."

Sybil gasped and whirled around, nearly bumping into the handsome chauffeur who stood just a few inches away, his gloved hand right next to her own, gripping the handle on her trunk.

"B-B-Branson?"

Where had he come from? She hadn't seen him in the car when Edith pulled up to the curb…had she? Had he been in the back? Had he slipped out without her noticing? Was he _really_ there? _Oh God, please, don't let this be a dream, don't let this be a dream!_

He gave her a warm, quick smile, along with a small bow of his head, before taking the heavy trunk and easily lifting it into the car, leaving her standing there on the curb with her mouth hanging open.

"Branson?" Susan whispered, a small, but roguish smile curling at the corners of her mouth. "As in…_Mr. T. Branson?"_

Sybil whipped her head towards her friend and gave her a silencing glare, which only caused Susan's grin to widen further. Her eyes flicked towards Branson, and then back to Sybil, giving her an "approving nod", which only caused Sybil's face to burn beet red.

"Well, come on Sybil!" Edith groaned, adjusting her goggles once again. "Get in! It's cold and it's a long drive back to Downton!"

Branson held the door open for Sybil, his eyes looking down, just like any other chauffeur. Sybil swallowed the lump in her throat, murmured her Christmas wishes to Susan, before climbing into the car, not daring to look at Branson, or take his hand for fear that she would lose her senses completely and enact _all_ her imaginings upon him at once.

They didn't touch, or speak. But she did feel his eyes upon her as she climbed and settled herself onto the seat. And beneath hooded lashes, her eyes followed him as he shut the door, and then returned to the front of the car to take the seat next to Edith.

"Right!" Edith grinned, releasing the break and letting the car roar back into life. "Home to Downton!"

* * *

><p>"LONDON!"<p>

Granny winced at her screech. "Sybil dear, please…must you speak at a volume to which only dogs can hear?" She gave a dramatic sigh and eyed her youngest granddaughter with disapproval. "Or is this how they've taught you to speak in York?"

Sybil glared at her grandmother, but returned her focus to her parents. "What do you mean…spend Christmas in London?"

Her father looked perplexed by her obvious displeasure. "Sybil, what on earth is the matter? I thought you would be pleased—you would get to see your friend, I could talk with the doctor, and we would also have an opportunity to visit with Matthew—"

"There will also be several wonderful Christmas parties to attend, including Lord Raymond's ball!" her mother added, as if _that_ would be the convincing factor.

Sybil groaned and began massaging her temples, her head throbbing in pain and irritation. Yes, she had missed home, and she had missed her family…but she had _not_ missed the rigid rules of "polite society" she was meant to follow. No sooner had Edith pulled the car up, her mother was rushing forward, throwing her arms around her and practically lifting her out of the car with the strength of Hercules! Sybil had laughed and hugged her mother tightly, but then was ushered inside, told to change for dinner, and once again…found that despite all the changes she had personally made…Downton remained the same.

It was so strange. For a month and a half she had lived without the aid of a servant; no one referred to her as "milady". Her upper class background brought her looks of disdain, not respect. She had gotten used to dressing herself, and yet here was Anna, doing the buttons up on the back of her dress, as well as fixing her hair. Oh Lord, how long had it been since she wore a fancy dress? Or had her hair in any style other than a simple, braided bun? Or wore dress heels!

"It's good to have you back, milady," Anna said with a smile. "We missed you."

Sybil smiled back, feeling the same way, but her heart ached in that moment too_. I've lived an independent life where I had no one to look after me other than myself. Even though I've faced rudeness and insults, I have also been treated like an equal amongst women who Granny would look down her nose upon. I've been to a place where what matters isn't how you dress for dinner, or what utensil you use when eating your fish, or what wine you consume with each course…no, what really matters are the lives and comfort of the brave men we have been called to serve…_that_ is what matters in the world, not how we do things at Downton._

At dinner, Sybil kept waiting for her family's questions, waiting to be asked what she had learned and observed. But other than a few simple pleasantries, the conversation on the general topic was minimal.

Well, perhaps they were waiting to ask after dinner? Such topics as identifying human organs and dressing the wounds of an amputated soldier may ruin one's appetite.

But as they all gathered in the drawing room after dinner…there was _still_ no conversation! Instead, everyone began talking about plans for Christmas…and that was when Sybil learned that her family had decided to surprise her with the announcement that _tomorrow_…they would be leaving for London!

"I…I can't go to London…" Sybil protested.

Her father scowled. "What do you mean _you can't go?"_

"I…" what could she say? Yes, of course it would be wonderful to see Susan once more. What a surprise that would be! She could finally meet James, and be there to support Susan while James met with the eye specialist. And of course it would be wonderful to see Matthew again…although no doubt he would want to spend as much time as possible with his fiancée, Miss Swire. Yet despite all of this, the truth of the matter was…well, it simply was that she wanted to be home and just…just…

_Admit it, at least to yourself, you silly girl!_

She wanted to have some time with Branson.

…At least enough time to learn why he hadn't responded to her letter!

"…I can't go because…because I have to be back at the college the day after New Year's." It wasn't a lie; classes did resume on the 3rd of January.

Her mother's mouth fell open and she looked as if someone had told her that Christmas had been canceled. Perhaps in her mother's mind, by Sybil's announcement, it had.

"What? You mean…you can't stay for New Years?" her mother gasped, when she was finally able to regain her voice after the shock of Sybil's announcement.

"I'm afraid not, Mama."

"But…but it's…it's Christmastide!"

"Indeed!" her grandmother added. "Surely they can't expect all the young ladies to return so soon. I'm sure they will understand that the daughter of the Earl of Grantham—"

Sybil risked the disapproval of her father and grandmother by interrupting. "No, Granny, I'm afraid they won't." Lord, this wasn't how she envisioned her Christmas holiday. This wasn't how she envisioned her homecoming! In truth, all she really wanted was an explanation from Branson—no, no, what she really wanted was…was just to have some time with him and tell him all about her experiences in York.

She remembered how, two years ago, she had snuck out late at night, happy to find him awake and reading in the garage, eager to share with him everything that had happened during her debut season in London. And even though there was a part of her that was downright furious with him for causing her to panic by his lack of correspondence, she still longed (especially now) to steal away to the garage and talk to her dear, dear friend, and tell him everything she had witnessed and learned.

But was that even possible now? After everything had been revealed?

"Alright," her father sighed, rising from his chair. "We'll make arrangements with this friend of yours, this Miss Vincent; she will be in London and no doubt will need to return to York at the same time. You can accompany her—"

"Robert!" Granny gasped. "Do you think that's wise? We hardly know these people!"

_"These people!"_ Sybil practically shouted, her voice threatening to lift to that same level that had caused her grandmother to wince earlier.

"Sybil, calm down," Mary groaned, reaching out and putting a calming (and restraining) hand on Sybil's shoulder.

"Please, Mama," her father groaned, rubbing his own temples now. "I know it's not what any of us wanted, but I think it's the best compromise, don't you?" he lifted his eyes and looked around the room, daring anyone to disagree with him.

Sybil sighed, flopping down like a petulant child on the nearest chaise. Indeed, it wasn't what she had wanted at all. But she knew it was pointless to argue the matter further. Once again, she would be returning to London…_without_ Branson.

That night, she had already begun to undress when Anna came to her room. "Sorry," she apologized. "I've gotten so used—"

"It's alright, milady," Anna simply smiled, before helping to finish unlacing Sybil's corset. "I understand that you will be spending Christmas in London? How exciting!"

Sybil glanced at Anna's reflection in her mirror. Anna's face bore a smile and her voice held nothing but pleasantries…but Sybil knew that the mere mention of the city brought Anna nothing more than a painful reminder that Bates was there…and not at Downton, where he belonged. She wanted to tell Anna that she would go and seek him out, but she kept her lips closed, not wanting to upset or embarrass her friend further. There had been enough disappointment for one night.

That whole night she tossed and turned, having perhaps the most fitful night of sleep since before she left for York. _Since before Branson declared his feelings to you._

She debated over whether she should go and seek him out. She had even risen from her bed on several occasions…and during one, she had actually gotten as far as to put on her slippers and throw a wool sweater over her nightgown. But in the end, she didn't leave her room. Surely he was in his cottage by now. And what would she say if she roused him awake? Would she do what she had imagined? Throw her fist back and scream curses at him? Or would she give in to the confusion of her heart, and cling to him—desperate to feel his strength, his warmth, his presence; to remind herself that despite everything that had happened…he was still _there_. He hadn't left.

But if she did that, it would only cause further confusion and heartbreak. It would give him false hope. Oh sod it, it would give _them_ false hope.

Still…she couldn't believe that after such a declaration, after the awkward letters and stressful emotions…they hadn't exchanged more than a few, simple, polite words with one another.

_What were you expecting? It's just like before. Isn't that what you wanted? For things to return to how they had been before any of this started?_

She didn't know how to answer that. Possibly because she didn't like any of the answers her mind came up with.

Morning came too soon. No doubt she looked like an absolute fright, no matter how many times she washed her face and combed her hair. Their train was scheduled to depart before luncheon, and the house was in an absolute uproar in preparing the trunks and making last minute checks before leaving. Sybil hadn't even bothered to unpack her trunk; she simply threw in a few more formal dresses, despite her feelings about having to attend any fancy parties. She knew she should be excited; glad even, to spend Christmas in London, something her family hadn't done since she was little girl. But as she watched Branson secure several trunks to the back of the car, her heart only sank further.

Once again, she didn't meet his eyes or take his hand as she climbed into the car, after her sisters. But once again, she could feel his eyes upon her…and her own watched him as he climbed into the driver's seat.

At the station, there was a thin patch of ice on the ground where the car had parked. Branson helped Mary and Edith, while her father helped Mama and Granny down. Now, it was just her…and her father had already wandered over to Carson to give some final instructions about the luggage. Just her…alone, however briefly…with Branson.

She took a deep breath, and turned to face him. He was looking right at her, and she could feel her face blazing under the intensity of his gaze. "Careful, milady," he softly murmured. "It's a bit slippery here."

Had he parked the car by this patch of ice on purpose? So she would be forced to take his hand when climbing down?

She felt so silly for thinking such a thing. Without another thought, she took his hand and slowly eased out of the car, trying her best to keep her blushing at bay.

She mumbled her thanks, not daring to look up at him, knowing that her cheeks would betray her and reveal the effect that something as simple as the touch of his fingers had on her. But as soon as she was safely on the ground and away from the icy patch…he did not release her hand. At least not right away.

She gasped as she felt something thin and crinkly, being pressed into her palm. She turned her gaze and looked up at him, her eyes lit with confusion and question.

Darn her cheeks! They burned brightly as his eyes locked with hers, the subtle green shining through the handsome blue. "Merry Christmas, milady," he whispered, before bowing his head and releasing her hand.

A note. He had given her a note!

She tucked the thin piece of paper into her purse, not wanting to draw any attention, and as soon as she was able, she boarded the train ahead of her family and quickly took a seat, pulling the note out and quickly hiding it within the pages of a book.

Should she read it? Did she want to? Oh what a silly question, of course she wanted to! And she certainly didn't want to repeat the foolishness of last summer, when she stubbornly chose not to read his letter right away.

She carefully pulled the note out and began to read, making sure no one could see what she was doing.

_Sybil—forgive the shortness of this letter. I also hope you can forgive me for not immediately writing back to you, after receiving your second letter. Apparently it had gotten lost amongst a pile of Mrs. Patmore's papers and recipe cards. I think one of the kitchen maids brought in the post, and set it down, instead of giving it to Carson right away. It wasn't opened, I assure you! But how long it sat, amongst that pile of papers, I don't know. It wasn't until the day before coming to York, that Mrs. Patmore discovered it. I'm sorry I wasn't able to respond as you had wanted. But I'm sure you did very well on your exams; every night at supper, we always say a special prayer for your success. And yes, despite the squeamish details, I do want to hear more about your training…and especially more on this story about you getting into a fight! Were you hurt? Why would this…person…want to pick a fight with you? What's wrong with her? Indeed, I do want to hear more…and I can only imagine how you handled her! But I have sadly learned, through Lady Edith, that you will be traveling to London after you get back, and therefore I will be forced to wait to hear your story. But I can be a patient man._

_ I do hope you have a lovely Christmas holiday in London. And once more, I apologize for the wait…and for any worry I caused with my last letter. I look forward to speaking to you when you get back. I miss you too._

—_Your friend, Tom Branson_

Her eyes with stinging. Her fingers swiftly moved to brush away the tears that threatened to fall, and she quickly refolded the letter and slipped it back between the pages of her book.

Thank God she hadn't lost her temper! It had all been another misunderstanding. She should be feeling glad! She should be happy for this explanation, for receiving this letter, for hearing his good wishes. She should be laughing and smiling for all his questions about the fight she had gotten into with Jane Hamley; smiling and eagerly awaiting the opportunity to tell him when she next saw him, just to see his reaction to her news.

…But she wasn't glad, or happy, and her smile was small…as well as pained. In truth, her heart ached when she read those four simple words_: I miss you too._ It ached for the man to whom she was suddenly parting from, once again, just as it had ached all those weeks ago in York. And it ached as she wondered how painful it must have been for him to end it by signing, _"Your _friend_, Tom Branson"._

_ But how else could he have ended it?_ _When he wrote "Goodbye" and you nearly had a panic attack! Why can't you be satisfied? You want him to stay, you want things to go back to how they were…and yet, you know that despite all this, it will only bring further confusion and heartbreak for you both! _

Sybil closed her eyes, pressing the book and its hidden note to her chest, and leaning her head against the window of the train as it roared through the Yorkshire countryside. This holiday was meant to be a respite from all the stresses of her life; but it seemed that the real stress…was only beginning.


	55. Branson's Journal V

_Just a quick clarification, because it was asked by a reader in the last chapter-no, there is no scene depicting Christmas at Downton in 1916, nor it is discussed. The family going to London for the holiday was of my own creation-basically I wanted to keep Sybil and Branson apart (oh the cruelty!) but just for dramatic purposes! _

_Anyway, this chapter wraps up "Volume II, Part I"-we will be moving onto 1917 over the next few chapters, but here, we have a foretaste. THANKS AGAIN to the lovely reviews! Please continue to share your thoughts if you are able, they really are a treat to read and a great motivator to write more! Thanks!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Fifty-Five<strong>

January 2, 1917

Here we are, another year gone and a new one beginning; 1917…happy New Year.

…

…

…Well, it can't be any worse than 1916, can it?

Do I dare recollect all that transpired this previous year? Where does one start? Well…

1) The War continues to rage on; Parliament panics at the enormous loss of men within a mere three years, and therefore issues Conscription.

2) Ireland continues in her struggle to become a free state. The Easter Rising takes place on April 24, resulting in more fatalities than any other uprising since 1798—a majority of which are innocent civilians…including poor Martin.

3) Martin's death brings about a horrific stroke on Uncle Michael, who was only mercilessly released from its hold before Christmas. I pray he can now find peace, reunited with his son, once more.

4) The Battle of Somme rages from July through November, and appears to be the bloodiest battle of the War…_so far_.

5) And…I pour my heart out to Lady Sybil Crawley…only to have it thrown back without reciprocation.

Right…well, I think that covers it. And thus proves my point that 1916 is a year that I pray will _never_ repeat itself (God willing).

In some ways, it's amazing; after such a tumultuous year, 1917 arrived in the midst of a quiet, snowy night. His Lordship and the family were in London, so there was no grand celebration to oversee. But even with them gone, there was little fuss in the Servant's Hall. Not that I expected a raucous party—Mrs. Hughes may be less rigid than Mr. Carson, but only slightly—I was still surprised that no one broke out a bottle, or offered a toast, or even sang out "Happy New Year!" when the clock struck twelve.

1917 arrived very calmly, a bulk of us sitting around the table in the Servant's Hall, listening to the clock tick, drinking tea, or nibbling on leftovers of Mrs. Patmore's Christmas cake. When the hour chimed, a soft murmur went up around the room, but nothing more. Then Mrs. Hughes rose, bid us all goodnight, which signaled for the rest of us to part as well. I remember walking across the drive from the kitchens to my cottage, snow falling softly from the sky, while the moon shown through the clouds overhead. It was cold, but I didn't care—I went about my usual evening routine, walking the garden path around the house, feeling the snow crunch beneath my feet, looking up at the sky and seeking out any stars that dared to reveal themselves.

The only star I found was Polaris…the great Northern Star. You know…I never realized until that night, that it pointed towards Sybil's window.

The romantic idiot in me would wax poetic at this discovery; _"of course it does! It's guiding you 'home'." _

…Did I mention the word "idiot"?

Quietly; that's how the New Year arrived. That's how this whole week has been! My fourth Christmas as an employee at Downton, and my third actually spent here. And yet it's been the quietest and most uneventful one of the whole lot.

I suppose I should be grateful for that.

The weeks leading up to Christmas were some of the most stressful I've ever felt, and not because of the holiday, but because _who_ the holiday would bring home. It's one thing to exchange "friendly" letters after such a disastrous declaration; it's quite another to actually _see_ the person.

I was counting the days to her return, counting them down with anxiety and dread. What was I going to say when I saw her? How should I behave? Her letter confused me even more; it was friendly and reminded me very much of the letters we exchanged when she was in London, but…that was before she knew how I felt…before _I_ even knew how I felt! Writing that reply was the hardest thing I've ever had to do…because what I really wanted to say, I couldn't…but at the same time, I couldn't ignore it, either.

…Just like I can't make myself leave this place.

…

…

I suppose the Good Lord took pity on me, by sending Lady Edith to my garage and asking—no, _telling_ would be more like it—that she wanted to drive up to York when the day came to fetch Sybil. What could be more distracting from anxiety and heart ache than fearing for one's life? I think I surprised Lady Edith with my eager agreement. And I got my wish; indeed, I was _very distracted_ during that entire drive, murmuring several Hail Mary's every few miles.

But not even Lady Edith's awkward and somewhat terrifying stop outside Sybil's dormitory, could have distracted me entirely from the sight of her…standing so close to the place where I told her how I felt.

Thankfully, she didn't see me. In fact, I didn't want her to. I was still unsure on what to say or how to look at her when I did. I practically leapt out my side of the car when Lady Edith stopped, thanking God for the stable and solid ground beneath my feet, and asking for strength as I went around the car…and approached her back.

I realized that the best thing to do was to behave as…well, as a "chauffeur" would behave, when dealing with the daughter of his employer. What a novel idea, yes? I murmured my words, took her trunk, and held the door open for her, making as little eye contact as possible.

…That didn't mean I didn't look at her _at all_. On the contrary, when I was sure she couldn't see me, I looked at her…and despite knowing that she doesn't love me, despite my frustrations and heart ache and all the stress I have been feeling…God, she's more beautiful than I remember.

Sybil Crawley…you have ruined me for other women. I'm afraid I must resign myself to the life of a monk.

…

…

It was Lady Edith who told me that they wouldn't be staying for Christmas. She told me how the family wanted to "surprise" Sybil, after bringing her home, that they would be heading to London to celebrate the holiday. I can't deny, upon learning this, I was a little grateful—perhaps further separation would be good for me?

Lord…I remember once, how the thought of being parted from her while she was in York was the most devastating thing to imagine. But now? Now, I find myself thinking…maybe it's for the best? Maybe it will help me heal? Maybe it will offer me further opportunities to…put my thoughts in order, in how I should behave when I see her next. Maybe I'll finally be able to resign myself to the truth—that we can never be more than friends.

Is that such a bad thing? Being friends, I mean. How many men can boast what I can? That I'm blessed to have Lady Sybil Crawley's friendship? Not many. In fact, I may be unique in that sense. Oh, I know she has friends, many friends for that matter, but…she shares a part of herself with me that…well, as mad as it sounds, that I believe she only allows _me_ to see. And I should be grateful for that friendship! I should be happy that I can _at least_ be that with her! How many people in my position are denied even that luxury with such a woman?

…

…

God help me, it's not enough. I'm sorry, I…

…

…_But it has to be._

The sooner I can accept this, the better everything will be.

So yes, I'll use this time I have now, this time when we are parted while she finishes her final weeks of training in York, to thicken my skin and harden my heart. And I'll tell myself, over and over, that we're friends—good friends—but nothing more. I will conquer this, I will overcome this, I will…I will triumph…

…I have to. Otherwise I'll go mad!

…

…

She should have traveled back to York today. I wasn't with her; she came straight from London, traveling with a Miss Susan Vincent, her roommate that she's written to me about. Apparently that was one of the reasons His Lordship wanted to go to London, to meet Miss Vincent's beau, who was injured in the War. According to Sybil's letter, he runs the risk of permanent blindness, but she's hopeful that the doctor who helped Mrs. Patmore will also be able to help him.

Even as I write this, I can't help but smile. That's so "Sybil"; one of the many reasons why I love—I mean, one of the many reasons why I _admire_ her so.

…

She had received my letter. I know that in my last entry, I wondered if she had received it because she's normally so prompt in replying, although at the time I assumed she was simply too busy with school work. But she had received my letter and she did reply; only it had been lost amongst Mrs. Patmore's recipes. Thank God none of the kitchen maids opened it!

I suppose I'll have to wait to hear more about Sybil's "fight"; apparently she got into some sort of physical "brawl" with another student, someone who had been purposefully snubbing her. I have never once imagined Sybil throwing a punch, not a real one at least; all the punches she has thrown at me have been playful and…well, they haven't been real is what I'm trying to say. But I have a feeling, if push came to shove, Sybil would "pack a mean punch", as Uncle Seamus would say.

…

There was this…desperation…at the end of her letter; begging me to reply, even if it were only a few words.

I did end my last letter to her by saying "Goodbye". It is an abrupt ending, yes, and not the sort one typically leaves. I don't know what really possessed me to write that word, other than…other than a need to express how…how hard it was, to…well, to _stay_ with that knowledge, and yet…

Well, it doesn't matter. But I am sorry for the distress I caused her, and I tried to show her that in a quick note I was able to write at the last minute and slip into her hand before she boarded the train. I can only pray that she reads it and accepts my apology. Because while it is hard, to…to accept the truth…I would still rather carry on being her friend, than being nothing to her.

So there you have it; my New Year's resolution for 1917. I will put all thoughts of romance and passionate love to rest and simply focus on being Lady Sybil Crawley's friend—her good friend whom she trusts to share her hopes and dreams with—but her friend, and nothing more.

…

…

God give me strength, this will be hard.


	56. 1917: A Letter to Gwen

_Now we begin a new "era", moving past Sybil's training to when she's working as an actual nurse at the Downton hospital. And things will begin to get...interesting. Thanks for reading and please drop a comment if you're able! _

* * *

><p><strong>Volume II, Part II<strong>

_Spring, 1917_

**Chapter Fifty-Six**

Dear Gwen,

I recently learned from Anna that you will be unable to visit as you had hoped. That's a real shame, as I was looking forward to meeting little Tommy and his twin sister, but I understand your reasons, and please pass my sympathies onto your husband. I know the pain of losing a loved one…and I am sorry for his loss.

However, even though your visit must be postponed, that doesn't mean I can't fill you in on all the things that are happening at Downton! The question, however, is…where do I start? (And forgive me if I am repeating anything Anna has already said).

We have a new arrival, or I should say that he still acts like a new arrival, even though he's been working here for nearly two months. Mr. Lang has taken Bates' place as His Lordship's valet, and according to Mrs. Hughes, "came highly recommended" from his previous employers.

I must confess, not to speak ill of the man, but…I find myself wondering how that's possible? Every time I see him, he's always jumping at the slightest noise, and he always seems to have this look of panic…like a rabbit, ready to run to its burrow. I've heard a few stories from Ethel (yes, _that_ Ethel), about His Lordship shouting at Mr. Lang for…well, who knows really; not doing up his uniform buttons properly? I try to take anything that Ethel says with a grain of salt, but I've heard Mr. Carson speak about Mr. Lang in a frustrated tone. Apparently there's a pool going around about how much longer Mr. Lang will be here before Carson has him sacked. But you might be surprised who, out of all people, is coming to Mr. Lang's defense. Have you guessed? None other…than Miss O'Brien.

I haven't heard O'Brien defend anyone the way she defends Mr. Lang, not even Thomas back when he was here. Now I don't mean to say that she outwardly shouts at people to "leave him alone" if she overhears someone speaking ill of him, but she has "created excuses for him" if he stammers or jumps, and if Ethel says anything, O'Brien is ready to jump down the girl's throat. But then that behavior between the two of them is nothing unusual.

I do feel sorry for Mr. Lang, even though I haven't really had much of a chance to speak with the man. He came to Downton after serving some time in France. I did learn through Mrs. Hughes that he was involved with the Somme, at least at the beginning. I'm not sure if he was discharged due to injury or for some other reason, but I'm wondering if that's why he's so skittish? His view of the War certainly clashes with William's…

Oh William. Did Anna tell you that he received his summons?

Idiot. He's "happy as a clam", as Mrs. Patmore would say. He couldn't wait to tell Mr. Carson, and practically begged him to be taken to His Lordship to share the news as well. Now, for the last few days, our ears have been ringing with William's excitement about going to Richmond for training, getting his uniform, and "fighting all the 'Huns' into submission". I shake my head whenever I hear William go on about it. Yet the person who seems the most affected by his foolish tirades is Mrs. Patmore. I'm not quite sure why; I know she received a letter recently, a letter that caused her great distress, so much so that she asked if she could speak to His Lordship about it.

However, I think the person who will miss William the most will be Mr. Carson.

Ever since Thomas left, Mr. Carson has been struggling with keeping footmen in the dining room. It seems that once Conscription came into being, every footman has been called up to serve at some point, and now William has joined their ranks. But even before William's letter arrived, Carson had to put up with (and you'll laugh at this, I'm sure) _women_ in the dining room!

Are you shocked? Do you need someone to fetch you smelling salts at this revelation?

Yes, poor Mr. Carson. At least before it was only one woman, two at most (in fact from what I hear, Anna has adapted very well in the place of a footman) but now with William leaving, Carson will find himself _surrounded_ by women!

Oh the shame of it all.

Forgive my sarcasm; I know, I know, it's all very important to Mr. Carson on "how things should run", but I can't help but find it comical. Oh Gwen, these are the problems you_ want_ to have in life!

However, on a more serious note, Mr. Carson does need to worry less about these things; I fear he's making himself sick and if he's not careful, he could bring on a heart attack! Mrs. Hughes has noticed this as well, and follows him around like a Saint Bernard, ready to sweep in and rescue him if need be. Of course, he's noticed her hovering too, and reprimands her whenever he has the chance. Therefore, she's created a "spy network" to do her hovering for her. Oh Gwen, tell me truly, are there times when you miss the madness here?

Finally…and I'd be surprised if Anna has shared this with you…Mr. Moseley continues his pursuit. For several months now, since December if I recall, Mr. Moseley has found various excuses to "drop by", even though he's not fooling any of us as to his reasons. I confess, I feel sorry for the man; I can understand what it's like, to be in love with someone who doesn't—

Well…um…never mind.

Um…well, I…I um…oh! Yes, I should share this with you; so Lady Edith has apparently shocked everyone by volunteering to drive a tractor for a village farmer. I must say, if you had asked me a few months ago if I thought Lady Edith was capable of driving anything well, including a tractor, I think I would have stared at you with a dumbstruck expression, while trying to think of a polite way to say "are you mad?" But she has shown such determination and persistence at learning and perfecting her skills, that now I truly would feel comfortable, sitting back and letting her drive a great distance. So if she needs a reference to drive this tractor, well, I would be proud to offer it.

…That doesn't mean, however, that I'm ready to hand in my notice and let her take my job!

Well, I think that's the whole of it. Oh, and Lady Sybil continues her nursing, but I'm sure she's written to you about that.

…Has she? I mean, has Sybil—excuse me, has _Lady_ Sybil written to you about her nursing? She has been quite busy, so perhaps she hasn't had the chance. I know that she was very upset when she learned that you wouldn't be able to visit, either. We talk when we are able, meaning when she's home at a "decent" hour (although who knows what that is anymore?) More and more patients arrive at the Downton hospital every day, and because it's such a small hospital compared to others (like York), there aren't as many nurses on staff, so it's not unusual that she spends nearly twelve hours a day there. There was one week, back in February when she first started, where she worked almost sixty hours, total! Her Ladyship was ready to declare her own war upon the hospital, if Lady Sybil ever encountered such a grueling shift again.

However…I think (much to Her Ladyship's horror) that Sybil—_Lady_ Sybil, sorry—loves it. Well, maybe not the tragedy behind the reasons there are so many patients to care for, but truly, she has…there's no better way to describe it, other than "blossomed"…since finishing college, and becoming a nurse. Oh Gwen, you should see her. You would be so proud.

Remember how hard she fought so that you could achieve your dream as a secretary? Remember the passion she displayed? Imagine that same drive, that same passion…but with _herself_, now. I think Sybil has truly found her calling…and even though it pains me to see the tired bags under her eyes when I pick her up from a long shift at the hospital, or to hear the tragic stories of some of the patients she's assisted…and then lost…I can't help but feel my heart swell with pride each time I see her in her uniform. She was so thrilled to have graduated at the top of her class—did she tell you about that? After the last remaining weeks of school, she came home, looking so pale and nervous, jumping every time the post arrived, waiting for the results from her evaluations and final exams, waiting to hear if she had simply passed, and could go forward as a real, professional nurse…

Oh Gwen, I can't begin to describe the joy I felt when she came running to the garage, waving an envelope overhead, shouting my name in a tone that radiated relief, happiness, and exuberance. She passed! And not only had she passed, but with the highest honors out of all the other students! She couldn't believe it (I should know, because she kept repeating that phrase over and over). She couldn't believe that she had received such high marks from all her instructors, _including_ this nurse whom she couldn't stand, by the name of Andrews. Her grades and recommendations were so high, that she was offered a permanent place at the hospital in York, if she wanted it.

I thought for certain she would take it. Or at the very least, consider it. But imagine my surprise, when she told me right away, that she would have to write them back and thank them for the honor, but sadly decline.

She was determined, apparently, and had always planned on helping Dr. Clarkson at the Downton hospital. "That was where they needed help", she said. That was where she felt called to serve.

I've said it before Gwen; Lady Sybil Crawley truly is an inspiration.

…

Well, no doubt I'm repeating things you have already heard. Forgive me for that! I am sorry, again, for your husband's loss, and send my sympathies to all of you. But I do hope, before the year is through, that you will find the opportunity to visit, and it would be wonderful to meet my "honorary" niece and nephew; after all, I have to apologize to Tommy that he was cursed with such a name! Really Gwen, what on earth possessed you?

Oh you know I'm teasing…sort of.

I know things are busy right now, both with this recent tragedy, as well as caring for two newborns, so I understand if you can't write straight away. So I will wait patiently, but also eagerly, to hear back from you when you can.

Take care Gwen, and give little Annie and Tommy a kiss from their "Uncle" Branson.

Affectionately,

—Tom


	57. Sybil's Diary XV

**Chapter Fifty-Seven**

April 10, 1917

You miss dinner for one night…and everything falls into chaos!

Well, maybe that's a little too dramatic. Alright, it didn't fall into "chaos", but apparently I missed quite a few announcements!

The biggest piece of news and the story that still has my jaw dropping is Edith, announcing to everyone that she has volunteered to drive the tractor for the Drake's farm! Oh, how I wish I could have been there to see Granny's face! Apparently she made some comment equating Edith to "Toad" from The Wind in the Willows. The comment certainly had Branson laughing! Oh, but I am proud of Edith; she truly has shown all of us her determination and drive (no pun intended) about seeking purpose and doing something to help the Effort. And I'm sure the Drake's will appreciate her help too! Well done, Edith, well done!

I wonder how Papa and Mama reacted? Mary was probably the calmest out of the bunch. Carson certainly was shocked—I know because Branson was in the kitchen when he came downstairs, grumbling about Edith's announcement to Mrs. Hughes. Branson told me all about it when he came to fetch me tonight. He also told me about poor Carson's stressful reaction to the news that Matthew, Aunt Rosamond, _and_ Sir Richard Carlyle will be visiting in a fortnight! Oh Carson—I know he wants everything to be "just so", but it can't! Now that William has received his summons, Downton must make do without footmen. And why can't a housemaid do the same job as a footman? Why must a housemaid keep to the kitchens and bedchambers and move about unseen, whereas a footman can occupy the front hall, drawing room, dining room, and stand at the ready like a peacock to be admired? I just don't understand…

I must admit, I do find it very…interesting…that Mary chooses _this_ time to invite Sir Richard, just when it is announced that Matthew will be returning soon. She's been corresponding with Sir Richard for many months now, since before I went to York. I am curious about the gentleman. No doubt Granny is foaming at the mouth about the possibility that Mary may someday be connected to a "self-made" man.

Hmmm…I don't know how I feel about that; meaning Mary and Sir Richard (I couldn't care less if he's an aristocrat or self-made). But…it just…well, it still doesn't seem right, how this all turned out. I know that Matthew is engaged to Lavinia now, and yes, it does seem that…well, that he certainly cares for her, very deeply, but…

It's just not how I thought things would be. If someone had asked me three years ago where we would all be, I would have said, "well naturally Mary and Matthew will be married and living quite happily with a child or two, and I will be enjoying the role of over-indulging aunt, risking reprimands from my grandmother, mother, and sister, as I attempt to teach my young niece or nephew how to swim in the garden pond, or climb one of the oaks as I used to do when I was a child."

Of course…if someone had told me three years ago that the world would be at war and I would be serving as a nurse…well, I don't know if I would have thought them mad for those things, but I certainly would have if they told me that no, Mary and Matthew _would not_ be married…but engaged or courted by two _completely different_ people.

Oh Mary; does she love Sir Richard? I know Mary would never use such "sentimental language", but I know my sister; I know that despite that cold and haughty shell she puts around herself, there beats a warm and passionate heart. And while she may never admit it (even to herself) I know that she longs to be loved, and to know the sort of love that the poets sing about.

Can Sir Richard offer her that? Or am I presuming too much? I haven't even met the gentleman for heaven's sake! But…I do want her to be happy. It just…it breaks my heart, remembering how she looked at Matthew last autumn. I know I'm not imagining things; I _know_ I could still see love in her eyes…

…

…

If someone had told me three years ago, that a certain chauffeur would have declared—

Oh for heaven's sake, why am I even bothering to bring it up? I mean really!

…

…

I'm simply tired, that's all. All of my shifts have been quite late this week. It was nearly midnight when I returned to Downton.

On the top floor of the hospital, there's a small room with a few beds, where nurses can go to get some rest, or, in the case of myself, stay the night if their shift ends very late. I've told Branson over and over that I don't mind staying; he can just as easily drive to the hospital to bring me back in the morning. But he insists, and claims he doesn't mind the late evening drives. I suppose it's just as well; even though Mama and Papa have long gone to bed by the time I return home, I know that Mama would have a fit if she thought I was spending more time than "necessary" at the hospital.

I can't deny...and despite…well, despite everything that's…well, that's happened between…Branson and myself…those moments where it's just the two of us, driving back to Downton, late in the evening…are some of my favorites. He does all the talking, knowing that I'm worn and tired. He tells me all that's gone on at the house, what he's heard above stairs, and below. It was through Branson that I learned that O'Brien and our newest housemaid, Ethel, have been carrying on a "silent" war for several months. Branson says "silent" because they have been ordered by both Carson and Mrs. Hughes to put an end to their rivalry, but he believes this uneasy "truce" will only last for so long; he's seen the "death glares", as he calls them, that the two exchange across the Servant's Hall.

Oh I know it sounds like idle gossip, but I have made it quite clear, as I did with Mrs. Patmore all those months ago when she gave me cooking lessons, that whatever I hear or witness in the kitchens…_stays_ in the kitchens. Whatever Branson shares with me will remain in the strictest confidence…just like old times.

I suppose that's what I love about those moments, when it's just the two of us in the car. I'm able, for the short drive to and from the hospital, to forget about the War, and all its horrors and tragedies that I witness each and every day amongst my patients…and simply be…Sybil Crawley, with Tom Branson, her best friend.

My best friend…

He has been…friendlier with me, these last few months.

…

…Oh Lord, how does that sound! Not…I don't mean _that_ sort of friendly! I…I simply mean (Lord, how my cheeks burn!) I simply mean that…that the atmosphere between the two of us has been…well, "less tense", I suppose. When I finished my training in January, I was a bundle of nerves, both because I was anxious to learn the results from my exams, and…and because now, I _would be_ seeing him. I would be back at Downton, awaiting my results and depending upon what they said, awaiting notice if I had a position at the hospital. And I would be doing all this…with Branson, whose presence was no longer miles and miles away but only a few yards, just next door to the garage!

Branson…who was no longer my friend, but…but a man who had more or less, _proposed_ to me! And who I had more or less refused…

…I wonder; is this how Mary feels, every time she sees Matthew now?

I can't say I blame her then, for wanting to escape to London during those months before Matthew left to join the army.

How was _I_ supposed to behave, now that Branson and I would see each other again? I couldn't hide in my room; but at the same time, I couldn't—can't—pretend that nothing happened, either. Lord, how I remember that day, only three days after returning from York, and I needed the car to take me to Ripon. I think I perspired more in that moment than any other during my training! It truly would be the first time, since that dreadful day in York, when he and I would be _alone_ together.

…But my worries, it seemed, were over nothing. He smiled at me, held the door open, and began to ease me into pleasant conversation…as if nothing had happened! He would tell me about stories he had read in the papers, sometimes about the War, sometimes about political events taking place in England…but all the sorts of things he and I used to talk about. He would also ask me to tell him stories about York, about my time at the college, and despite the green tint his skin would sometimes turn, he even asked me to tell him more about my work at the hospital. He especially begged me to tell him (in great detail) about my fight with Jane Hamley. And I would smile, and laugh, and feel all the stress and dread and worry wash away, and once again remember how wonderful it is…to have Branson for my friend.

And that's how it's been. When I received my results, he was the first person I went to—not Papa, not Mama, not Mary or Edith…but Branson. He smiled at me, said "well done, milady!" and then insisted on driving me to Ripon and buying me a cup of chocolate to celebrate. I'm sure if he could have, he would have liked to have gone to a pub for a "proper celebration drink", but what would people think, seeing the Earl of Grantham's youngest daughter in a common pub? Still, that cup of chocolate was the sweetest and most delicious chocolate I've ever tasted (dare I say, even better than Mrs. Patmore's?)

Whenever I am needed at the hospital, Branson takes me. No matter the time, be it early in the morning before the rest of the house wakes, to nights like this one, where I come home very late. He says he doesn't mind the hours, and we both enjoy the opportunity to talk and share whatever is on our minds, especially since we have so little time, otherwise. My shifts are always long, and some days they are backbreaking—but in truth, I don't mind. I truly do feel like I'm doing something worthy, something that has…purpose. And Branson seems to understand that better than anyone.

I would dare say there is hardly any awkwardness between the two of us. Indeed, it seems that everything I longed for has returned…

…

…

…So why am I unhappy?

…

…Have I become like Mary? Putting on a cool demeanor, covering myself up in a haughty shell? It's not exactly like hers, it's made up of laughter and wit…but it's still a shell. Have I made my work at the hospital my own version of Sir Richard Carlyle?

…

…I still find myself…sometimes…gazing at him, admiring his profile, his frame, his strength…

…I still find myself wondering, sometimes…about…about what it could be like…if I had said "yes"…

…

…

There's no sense in wondering. There's little point. I need to stop sniveling and simply be grateful for what I have.

There. That's the end of that. I am determined to overcome…these feelings.

…

…

Oh for goodness sake.

…

I practically splattered ink all over myself in frustration; I need to stop pressing down so hard with my pen. Anyway, I saw Mama at the hospital today, but it was very brief. I was getting some fresh linens from the laundry room, when I saw her leave Dr. Clarkson's office. She didn't even look my way, she was deep in conversation with him. I wanted to call out to her, but something told me to keep my mouth closed and my ears open.

I heard very little, other than Dr. Clarkson making some remark about "it's out of my hands, I don't have the power or authority to bring him here…"

_Him?_ Who could they be talking about? Who is it that Mama wants at the Downton hospital? And was it my imagination? Or did Dr. Clarkson seem more…_wary_, than powerless? I honestly have no idea. Well, if it can't be done, then whoever this mystery person is will not be darkening the door. Besides, I'm sure it's no one I know.

Lord, it's almost one o'clock in the morning—and I have to be back at the hospital shortly after breakfast. Right, well, I look forward to hearing about Edith's adventures, driving the Drake's tractor, and…yes, even meeting Sir Richard Carlyle. At the end of the day, what matters most to me is seeing both of my sisters happy—and if a newspaperman and a tractor can do that…then so be it.

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><p><em>Thanks for all the lovely reviews! Please drop a comment and let me know what you think! Thanks again for reading!<em>


	58. Branson's Journal VI

_Hey all! Long time, no see. I was on vacation and then once I got home, I came down with a serious cold, and had no energy to sit at the computer and type anything new. But NOW I finally have a new chapter to upload, and thank all of you for your patience, and feedback! So inbetween watching the Olympics, I hope you enjoy this, and if you're able, let me know your thoughts! Thanks again!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Fifty-Eight<strong>

April 24, 1917

"By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes…"

When I was a boy, I couldn't stand Shakespeare. The "Histories" were nothing but over-dramatic valentines to dead English monarchs. Also, why were girls swooning over Romeo? When did suicide become romantic? And _Hamlet_…I still shudder at the memory. But…I must confess, the one play I didn't mind was _Macbeth_. Perhaps it was the Scottish folk lore? I could find similarities between _Macbeth's_ witches and the legends my grandmother told me about banshees and the little people. Stories that would leave you cowering beneath your bed sheets, but that I couldn't get enough of! And I remember that line, probably the only line in the entire play that I can recite, but a line that announces doom…

An appropriate line, since today…I saw Thomas, once again.

God almighty…how did _that_ happen?

Apparently, he had visited Downton once before, but I was out running an errand for Mrs. Hughes. It's amazing really; he was only there for an hour, nothing more…and yet, in that one hour, he managed to bring a shadow of gloom over the entire household.

Alright, maybe that's a little too dramatic, but he did manage to bring down both Anna and Daisy's spirits, as well as irritate Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes. I think it's safe to say that the only person who was glad to see him was Miss O'Brien…well, and perhaps Ethel, but that's only because she doesn't know any better.

The reason for Thomas' reappearance is due to an injury he sustained while in France. He received a bullet wound, straight through his left hand (he was more than happy to show off the scar when I saw him this afternoon at the hospital). Which brings me to the other point; Thomas has not only returned to England for good, but will be staying in the area, working at the Downton Hospital.

_How did this came to pass?_ I'm not sure. O'Brien didn't seem too surprised by the news; in fact she's been wearing a rather "knowing" smile for the last few weeks. No doubt she's looking forward to resurrecting old habits of scheming and concocting whenever he has an afternoon off and can visit. At least we won't have to deal with him on a daily basis.

But poor Sybil…

It was while delivering a message to her this afternoon that I ran into the former footman. I know she hasn't had the same encounters with Thomas that the rest of us have had, but…now that he's back…and working in the hospital…and apparently has certain airs about how he should be treated, now that he's no longer a footman…

I can only hope and pray that those old habits, of seeing Sybil as Lady Sybil Crawley and not just some other nurse, stay fresh in his mind. I don't care if it sounds hypocritical of me, she's _Lady_ Sybil, and it would serve him best if he remembers that! I swear, if I hear one word about him speaking ill to her or bullying her…

…

…

I'm fine, I'm fine…

Bloody fool, I've wasted all this ink now, splattering most of it on the paper from squeezing my pen too hard.

I need to remind myself that Sybil—_Lady_ Sybil—is more than capable of taking care of herself. And after all the stories she's shared with me about her time at nursing school, I know she's more than capable of handling a cheeky ex-footman. Maybe it's Thomas I should feel sorry for?

…

…Now that I think about it, I find myself actually hoping that he does say something cheeky; I'd love to see him try to explain to O'Brien and anyone else why he has a black eye.

Indeed, Lady Sybil is more than capable; she put Thomas right in his place this afternoon, more or less "barking" an order to him about giving pills to some patient at the other end of the room.

Lord, she was in a right mood today!

The reason for my visit to the hospital this afternoon was to deliver a message to Lady Sybil on behalf of her Ladyship, "reminding" her about dinner this evening. To say that Sybil responded to this message with…annoyance…would be a vast understatement.

Nearly tore my head off when I delivered it! But I didn't mind, I know she's not upset with me; this is an old battle, between herself and her Ladyship, one that's been going on ever since Lady Sybil received her assignment at the hospital.

In her Ladyship's eyes, they're "working Lady Sybil like a packhorse in a mine" (those were her exact words, too). It's clear to see that she doesn't care for the long hours Lady Sybil has been keeping at the hospital; it certainly isn't unusual for Sybil to spend more than twelve hours at the hospital in one day. In the beginning, my thoughts weren't too distant from those of her Ladyship; I too thought Sybil—I mean, Lady Sybil, was working too long and believed they were taking advantage of her. But I know better now. Based on all the conversations she and I have when I bring her back from the hospital, I know that despite the long hours and hard work, she loves what she's doing—and I can't help but be proud of her. I wish her Ladyship could see that. I wish all of them could see Sybil the way I saw her today: calm, confident, and in charge of her domain. I know they would all be just as proud as I am, as well as be in awe of all that she's achieved.

So when her Ladyship said what she said, I felt obligated on Sybil's behalf to defend her, and responded with, "I think she enjoys it."

Lord, what was I thinking? As soon as the words left my mouth I knew it had been wrong. Not only was I contradicting something her Ladyship had said, but I was also revealing that…that I have…that I have been "paying close attention" to Lady Sybil. And while _I_ know that's not a bad thing, that's not exactly how other people will see it.

Idiot. And I thought I was doing so well, keeping my distance while at the same time, keeping her confidence and friendship.

Her Ladyship didn't reprimand me; she didn't have to. The icy glare she gave me was ten times harsher than any admonishment. She certainly reminded me of my place by delivering a cold command to see to it that I tell Syb—Lady Sybil—to be home in time to change for dinner.

I suppose I can't fault her Ladyship for making a fuss; it's the first dinner in months where she and his Lordship are entertaining someone.

Sir Richard Carlisle.

All I know about the man is that he owns several newspapers in London…and that apparently, Lady Mary is rather keen on him.

He certainly seemed polite enough, when I arrived at the station to take him and Lady Rosamond to the house. He did at least make eye contact with me and said "thank you" when I opened the car door, which is more than I can say for Lady Rosamond. Other than that, I can't say much else. He didn't talk much, spent most of the ride reading a newspaper. I wanted to ask him which newspapers he did own, wondering if they were any that I read. But I didn't, of course. And while I'm sure it is possible that I've read one or two papers under his company's name, I doubt he has anything to do with the socialist titles that I like.

Sybil's mentioned him to me on a few occasions. She didn't say much, but she certainly implied that he's who her sister favors, now that Mr. Matthew is engaged to Miss Swire. I would certainly agree that on the surface, Lady Mary and Sir Richard seem well suited. But…Sybil swears that her sister and Mr. Matthew were head over heels in love, once. And while I confess that I didn't pay close attention, I do remember seeing Lady Mary's face light up whenever I dropped Mr. Matthew off at the front of the house. She certainly smiled more, back then. And it was a genuine smile, not some cold, polite curl of the lips, which she often wears now.

I don't know; Sybil certainly seems convinced that Mr. Matthew is Lady Mary's "true love", but if that's so, why didn't they announce their engagement like we all thought, back before the War? Maybe there's a lesson to be learned there; Mr. Matthew was able to move on, and Lady Mary seems to be just as able with this Sir Richard Carlisle.

If they can move on…why can't I?


	59. Questions, Advice, and Revelations

_Wow, this chapter took me by surprise. When I sat down to write it, I knew what I wanted to write about and what part of the show I wanted to cover...but I had no idea until I found myself in the midst of typing it, what would be revealed and how it would end. I confess, I'm actually shaking because of it! But I think that's what's so great about a story, when it can sneak up and surprise YOU, the author, and more or less "insist" on doing what it wants. At least that's how it felt for me!_

_I hope you enjoy this chapter; it's a little longer than some of the previous ones, but I don't think that's a problem. Please let me know what you think, I always love and appreciate the feedback of readers, and as always, thank those of you who do let me know that you like it by following it, favoriting it, and especially taking the time to leave a comment. Thanks again!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Fifty-Nine<strong>

Chaos had erupted in the Servant's Hall.

Everywhere Sybil turned, there were questions being thrown in her path.

"Will Mr. Carson be alright?"

"Is it a heart attack?"

"What will happen if he dies?"

"Who takes charge now?"

Perhaps she shouldn't have said anything? Perhaps she should have simply waited for Mrs. Hughes to come downstairs and tell everyone what had happened, or even to wait until the next morning to learn the truth.

But Mrs. Hughes was upstairs in the dining room, along with Anna, trying to bring order there after Carson's collapse. Lang had been dismissed from the dining room, and Sybil hadn't paid attention to where he had gone. And while she never truly cared for her mother's maid, O'Brien did have a level head and could have been very useful in the Servant's Hall just now, but like Lang, she too was missing.

After Carson's collapse, Sybil helped Matthew with getting Carson to his bedroom, before proceeding to the Servant's Hall. She hoped to find Branson there, and was happy to see him sitting at the table…but that smile of relief quickly faded when she also realized other members of staff were seated around the table too, waiting for their own supper.

Branson caught her eyes and immediately leapt to his feet, well before the other servants realized she had entered the room. His eyes were lit with concern and he didn't waste time to cross the room to where she stood.

Had he always been this graceful? Despite his broad, muscular frame, he moved with such precision, such steadiness and ease, that the most talented dancer in the world wouldn't be able to control his or her jealousy.

"Milady?"

Sybil gave a quick shake of her head, inwardly cursing herself for her brief…hypnotization. "Branson, I need you to go and fetch Dr. Clarkson—"

"What's happened? What's wrong?" Ethel demanded, looking utterly confused, as well as annoyed, but perhaps because she didn't know what was going on.

"Pipe down!" Mrs. Patmore hissed, rolling her eyes at the demanding housemaid.

"Everything's fine," Sybil tried to reassure, turning away from Branson and facing the rest of the staff. They all wore expressions of confusion, and some were beginning to look panicked. "Carson has simply taken ill, that is all—"

A great gasp erupted, quickly followed by millions of questions.

"Is he dead?" a kitchen maid squeaked.

"Don't be daft!" another maid grumbled. "If he were dead, you think they would be asking for the doctor?"

"Is it catching?" squealed another girl, her pale face growing whiter by the second.

Sybil shook her head, opening her mouth to speak and reassure the girl, but was stopped by yet another question, this time by a maid wanting to know what exactly happened upstairs.

"Did he faint? Did he hit his head?"

"Where's Mr. Lang? What about Mrs. Hughes and Anna?"

"What about his Lordship? Or the guests? Will Mr. Carson be sacked?"

"What's going on upstairs? Should we go up? Do they need help?"

Sybil's head was pounding and she was beginning to feel dizzy with the amount of times she turned to look at someone who was speaking to her, demanding to know what had happened.

"Alright, alright, back off!" Branson barked, looking annoyed at the servants who were crowding around her, asking whatever question was on their mind. He purposefully put himself between Sybil and the other servants, acting like a shield from their bombardment of questions. He looked over his shoulder at the confused cook. "Some help, Mrs. Patmore?"

It was in that moment that Mrs. Patmore came to her senses. With Carson gone, and Mrs. Hughes upstairs, she was the next in command. "Daisy, take the girls back into the kitchen and wait for my orders; we may need to salvage what we can of tonight's dinner. Ethel, why don't you slip upstairs and wait in the pantry to see if Mrs. Hughes needs anything; the rest of you lot just sit and be patient. Now get moving!"

Sybil let out a sigh of relief, grateful for Mrs. Patmore's leadership. The staff looked a little reluctant to listen, but they didn't have to be told twice, and immediately the crowd around her dispersed, save for Branson. He nodded his head in thanks to Mrs. Patmore, and then turned his attentions back to Sybil. "Is there anything special Dr. Clarkson needs to bring?"

Sybil shook her head. "No, I think Carson merely collapsed from exhaustion; he's conscious and resting in his room; his breathing is a little shallow, but nothing to cause panic."

Branson nodded in his head. "Good. Although I'm not surprised; with the way he's been working these past few weeks, I knew it was only a matter of time before he drove himself into such a situation," he whispered, not wanting any of the others to hear him speak so. Sybil felt the same way, and gave Branson a knowing look. A smile quickly spread between the two of them, as well as a light laugh, as if they were sharing a secret joke. "Right," Branson turned and picked up his livery jacket which had been lying across the back of his chair. "I'll go and fetch Dr. Clarkson."

"Thank you," Sybil whispered, and before she realized what she was doing, reached across and gave his arm a grateful squeeze.

The action caused them both to freeze, and Sybil felt her breath catch as her eyes darted up to meet his, which had just lifted from where her fingers touched him. Beneath her touch, Sybil felt the distinct throb of Branson's bicep, and quickly dropped her hand and turned her head away, before he could see her face turn from pale to crimson.

_Idiot!_ She cursed herself. Oh Lord, had anyone else noticed? Did she dare lift her eyes? She knew that if she caught anyone's gaze, her blush would only darken. But wouldn't she look guiltier if she didn't lift her head? _Guiltier? What is there to feel guilty about? I was simply thanking him for doing what I had asked him to do. I've squeezed both Gwen's and Anna's hands in the past; honestly, it was a harmless gesture!_

…Only it wasn't Anna or Gwen's arm she had just touched, whose muscle she had felt flex beneath her fingers…

_Stop it! You're a professional nurse, not some silly, addle-brained schoolgirl! And that's all in the past! Branson is…well, he's your friend and nothing more and that's that, so stop thinking and feeling—_

"Is there anything you need me to do, milady?"

A squeak practically burst from Sybil's own throat, as Mrs. Patmore touched her shoulder. She lifted her eyes to meet those of the cook's…and finally realized that Branson was gone. Was she disappointed? She should be glad that he had finally gone to do what needed to be done.

"Milady?"

Sybil shook her head, forcing herself to focus on the cook. "Thank you, Mrs. Patmore; knowing that you have everything under control is a great help, and will surely bring some relief to Carson. Perhaps we can make him a pot of tea? And toast some bread? Who knows when he last ate anything," Sybil sighed. "I'll gather a few things to take up—"

"There's no need, milady, I can do that and have one of the housemaids deliver it."

But Sybil shook her head. "No, I want to check on him and be there when Dr. Clarkson arrives; besides, I know my way around the kitchens, remember?" she said with a small grin.

Mrs. Patmore sighed, but returned the smile. "Indeed; although I insist that you let _me_ fill the kettle." Sybil blushed; the cook would never let her forget how she sprayed water everywhere when she first tried to fill the tea kettle.

"A fine dinner this turned out to be," Mrs. Patmore grumbled. "First time in months we have a dinner party, and everything falls to pieces."

Sybil frowned a little. "I wouldn't say that."

"No?" Mrs. Patmore placed the kettle on the stove. "First impressions mean a great deal to people. How will this all look to Lady Mary's beau?"

Sybil found herself blushing at Mrs. Patmore's frankness, although in truth she took it as a sign of trust that the cook would speak so openly, just as she had done all those months ago when teaching Sybil the ins and outs of the kitchen. "It doesn't matter what Sir Richard thinks," she replied, a slight grumble to her voice.

"Doesn't it?" Mrs. Patmore asked, a bit of a sarcastic laugh in her voice. "You ask Lady Mary that and you might receive a different answer."

Sybil's frown deepened. She didn't know what to make of Sir Richard, exactly. She had told herself over the past two weeks to greet the man with an open mind and try to keep any personal judgments at a bare minimum. It fascinated her to watch Mary as the days drew closer to Sir Richard's arrival. She wouldn't say that her sister looked "excited", but…no one could argue that she was certainly anxious, and wanted everything to be "just so".

"_Sybil, please promise me that you will keep your political opinions to yourself while Sir Richard is visiting? I have enough to worry about with Edith, who delights in embarrassing me at any chance she can get; I don't need to worry about you saying something about women's suffrage or factory workers rights, do I?"_

Sybil had been taken aback by Mary's blunt request, perhaps even a little hurt that her sister would even think she would "embarrass" her by revealing her political feelings. She told herself Mary had only said those things because she was nervous; however it didn't put Sir Richard in a good light, in Sybil's opinion. Would he find such talk about women having the right to vote, "unflattering"? Did he have a problem with factory unions? If so, did that mean that the men who worked for his newspapers received "less than decent" wages? Oh Lord…was he a Tory?

Try as she might, Sybil found that her opinions on Sir Richard Carlisle were falling with each passing day. And then today, to receive her mother's "summons", about coming home in time to change for dinner as if she were a small child...and in front of her patients and colleagues…well, it was simply icing on the cake. Sir Richard Carlisle may be the richest, handsomest, most charming man in the entire world…but right now, in Sybil's eyes, the man was a complete nuisance.

Branson came back in the late afternoon to fetch her, and she purposefully took her time with her last rounds. Yes, she knew she was being obstinate, but really it was her family's fault! If they insisted on treating her like a child, then she would behave like one! She sat in the back of the car, fuming to herself while Branson described Sir Richard. Lord, she was tempted to wear her blue harem pants to dinner. What would Sir Richard Carlisle think about that? Would he be shocked and disgusted? Good! Then they would all know the sort of person he was and be done with it.

…But Mary would never forgive her. Mary, who kept poking her head in while Sybil was changing, to check her hair, to approve of her dress, to make sure she didn't smell of whatever medicine she had been using last. To say it was annoying would be an understatement, but one look into Mary's dark, anxious eyes, and Sybil felt her heart swell with pity.

Tonight would be the first night since Matthew's visit last autumn, a night where Mary had stood tall, her head held high despite the slight wobble of her chin that only Sybil had noticed out of the corner of her eye, while Matthew entered the room…with Lavinia on his arm. She remembered thinking how brave her sister looked in that moment. And she remembered feeling so sad for Mary, to see the man she knew her sister still loved, engaged to another woman.

Tonight would be an even playing field. Although Sir Richard was not engaged to Mary, he was there as Mary's guest, sitting at the same table along with Matthew and Lavinia.

No, she would not embarrass her sister. She would wear the dress that Mary picked, she would smile and shake Sir Richard's hand, and she would be polite and cordial and keep all personal thoughts, be they political or not, to herself.

And that was exactly what she did. Once formal introductions had been made, she sat on a nearby settee in the drawing room, just across from where Sir Richard stood, and smiled politely while they awaited the announcement for dinner. And indeed, Sir Richard was charming, smiling back at everyone he spoke to, listening to the conversation as well as politely replying to anything asked of him, including Granny's "interrogation". He seemed like a very nice gentleman; Mary could do far worse.

…And yet…something rubbed Sybil the wrong way about him. The more she listened to him talk, the more she felt her renewed hopes to "like" the gentleman, sink.

_That's just your silly prejudices; you're determined not to like him because you still think Mary should be with Matthew! Well stop it, this instant! Because Matthew clearly adores Miss Swire and intends to marry her, and Mary deserves to find happiness, too!_

Yes, she did. But…was Sir Richard Carlisle the best choice?

What did he have to offer, exactly? He was wealthy, to be sure, no one could argue that. And yes, while Sybil had her prejudices about the gentleman, they had nothing to do with the fact that he was a "self-made man", as her grandmother put it, so disdainfully. But wealth didn't always last. Sybil had heard plenty of stories about families, much like her own, whose fortunes were lost or squandered due to the War or bad investments. Why, if it weren't for her own mother, Downton Abbey would have become such a mausoleum. But money could easily disappear, and if such a thing happened, then what did one have? Surely, a union based solely on financial comfort was not a recipe for a lifetime of happiness.

However, when she dared to broach the subject with her Aunt Rosamond, her aunt gave a small, condescending laugh and murmured, "Perhaps for you, it is not". Sybil should have known better than to speak to her Aunt Rosamond about such things. After all, her aunt was the one who convinced Mary to hold off on answering Matthew's proposal.

"Careful, you'll burn it!" Mrs. Patmore warned with a slight click of her tongue, drawing Sybil out of her thoughts, and bringing her focus back onto the bread she was toasting. "We don't want to make Mr. Carson any sicker than he already is."

Sybil silently chastised herself, and scraped some of the blackened crust off with a butter knife. "Is the tea finished?"

Mrs. Patmore nodded her head and proceeded to pour the boiling water into a tiny pot, before placing it and a saucer and cup on a tray. Sybil added the toast, as well as little bit of jam, before taking the tray out of Mrs. Patmore's hands. "Assure him that everything will be fine," Mrs. Patmore added, before rolling her eyes. "Although I'll doubt he'll believe me. Everything has to be 'just so' with Mr. Carson."

Sybil nodded her head, but found herself smiling. No wonder he and Mary got on so well. Everything always had to be "just so". She thanked the cook, and then proceeded to carry the tray up the stairs, taking the servant's stairwell that would lead to their rooms.

As she quietly approached Carson's room…she heard voices, only they weren't between Carson and Matthew, who had remained in the room when Sybil had gone downstairs. Instead, she heard her sister's voice, laughing at something the old butler had said, which brought a smile to Sybil's face. Mary hadn't laughed, genuinely laughed, in quite a long time. It was good to hear it, and Sybil knew that if anyone could help Mary open up, it was Carson.

"Will we be seeing a lot of him?"

Sybil paused just outside the door. It was Carson who had asked the question, and no doubt it was about Sir Richard. Sybil had been wondering the same thing.

"I don't know…" Mary answered, and Sybil could hear the smile in her voice. "Maybe."

A small smile lifted at the corners of Sybil's mouth. Mary sounded genuinely happy. She chewed on her bottom lip as she thought about the conversation she had had with her aunt earlier. Maybe she was wrong? Perhaps she had been too harsh in her judgment, that Mary was only interested in marrying Sir Richard because of his money. Even though Sybil struggled to see it, perhaps Mary did see something in Sir Richard, beyond the self-made wealth?

"And Captain Crawley…is he happy with the changes, so to speak?"

Sybil's smile faded at Carson's question. Even though she couldn't see her sister, she could imagine Mary's face in that moment, and could imagine whatever pleasant smile she had been wearing, fade away too.

Oh blast it all, Carson! Why did he have to ask her that?

_You shouldn't be so harsh; you were thinking the same thing earlier._

"May I give you one piece of advice, milady?"

Even though Carson was directing the question at Mary, and neither he nor her sister were aware of her presence just outside, Sybil found herself leaning in towards the closed door, as if the advice he were about to offer was for her as well.

"Tell him what's in your heart…"

Sybil felt her breath catch.

"If you still love him, let him know."

_ If you still love him…_

She was so confused. The emotions she had been carrying for…well, for years now, had gone through so many changes. There were times when she found herself waking in the middle of the night, gasping for breath after some crazed dream. Times when her skin was slick with sweat, and her body trembled over forbidden images that continued to play across her mind's eye, even though she was wide awake. There were days when she couldn't wait to see him, where she bounded to the garage to share a thought, or to get his opinion. And there were days when she dreaded the sight of him, more so because she dreaded the confused feelings that would follow.

She remembered how upset she had been with him, nearly two summers ago, over the misunderstanding about her relationship with Tom Bellasis. She remembered the war they had fought, and how angry she had been with him at the time. She also remembered how deeply it hurt, that they were fighting, and how despite her stubborn pride, she deeply missed her friend and longed for peace.

She also remembered how jealous she had been at Gwen's wedding, seeing him dance with those other girls, while she nursed her sprained ankle with far too much champagne. She remembered their dance in the moonlight; she remembered her hands resting against the broad planes of his chest…his shoulders…her fingers curling around his neck as they swayed to silent music. She remembered the desire that flooded her senses, and the strange longing that filled her body.

She remembered how, so many years ago it seemed, she had passionately defended him when her father threatened to have him sacked after the Count in Ripon. She remembered crying in front of Gwen, feeling so frightened for him, blaming herself entirely for her foolishness and the cost it may have.

She remembered the schemes that she would concoct with him, and how they would both laugh, and tease, and…yes, and flirt. She remembered the playful way they once were around each other, and how innocent everything had seemed then.

She remembered how he, out of all the people she knew, even Gwen…_he_ was the one she could go to, the one she could trust her deepest secrets to…

And of course…she remembered how they had parted, when he brought her to York. She remembered standing there, beneath that archway, looking up at him and feeling her body go numb while the rest of the world melted away…as he confessed his feelings for her, promising to devote every waking minute to her happiness.

…And she also remembered the answer she gave…which was none. And she remembered how much she hated it.

_Tell him what's in your heart. If you still love him, let him know…_

"…And even if he's killed, and he may be," Carson had gone on, "you won't be sorry. But if you don't tell him, you could regret it all your life long."

Something warm and wet was trickling down Sybil's cheek. Was she crying? She knew that Carson was speaking to Mary and specifically was speaking to her about Matthew, and yet…and yet…

While he had never said the words, Branson had more or less promised her that he wouldn't enlist. But that didn't mean she hadn't worried. And then when Parliament passed the law on conscription, Sybil found herself dreading every visit from the post, wondering if a summons with Branson's name on it was nestled somewhere within those letters sent to the Servant's Hall. She had often wondered what she would do, if and when she learned that he had received such a letter. She wouldn't cry, at least she would try not to, not in front of him. But could she put on a brave smile? Would she be able to do that? Or would the anxiety of the situation be too much? She did know that she would be counting the days, if he left; counting them and keeping watch, and praying—as she did every night now—praying for his safety and for his return, unharmed.

The thought of Branson going to war was terrifying enough. But she had never truly considered what she would do if…if he left, but _never_ returned.

_Even if he's killed, and he may be…you won't be sorry._

It was a frightening reality…but one she lived with every day at the hospital.

She remembered the story of Susan's beau, James; how on the day he received his summons, he went straight to her home, declared his feelings for her, before sweeping her up in his arms and kissing her. The knowledge of that love had not only given James strength during the War, but had also strengthened Susan at the college.

But Branson's declaration hadn't exactly given Sybil a boost in confidence. If anything, it had thrown her further into confusion. Of course, a part of that was because Sybil knew, as much as she hated to admit it, nothing could come out of such a declaration. James and Susan were of the same social class. She, on the otherhand, was the daughter of an earl and he was the chauffeur who worked for her father! It would be an impossible union, one that no one would allow! So why put oneself through such heartbreak? What was the point?

_But if you don't tell him, you could regret it all your life long._

Indeed. If anything ever happened to him…she would blame herself, always.

Branson was clearly the braver one. Even though he knew nothing could happen, even though he knew they would face nothing but heartbreak…he _still_ told her how he felt.

No…no, that wasn't true. Branson did believe something could happen. She remembered his words so clearly…

_"I've told myself and told myself you're too far above me, but things are changing! When the War is over, the world won't be the same place as it was when it started…"_

He truly believed that. He believed that there was a future out there, where a man from his background and a woman from hers could be together.

"_Bet on me…"_

That was all he had asked. For her to have faith in him, which she did. She did have faith in him, she did believe, truly, that he could do or be anything he aspired to. But he was also asking her to stretch that faith, to include her as a part of his dreams.

_"…and if you're family cast you off, it won't be forever. They'll come around, and until they do, I promise to devote every waking moment to your happiness."_

There. He had done it; he had laid everything down before her, and was now asking her to do the same.

But she hadn't given him an answer. She was too afraid. All she was able to do was beg for him not to leave Downton, and by some miracle, he hadn't. He remained, and also by some miracle, they had managed to ease back into that innocent friendship they had once shared when she was younger.

But she wasn't happy. Not as happy as she had been, all those years ago. Not as happy as she felt she should be…or could be.

Did Branson have any regrets? Did he wish he hadn't told her how he felt?

Or was Carson right? Was Branson relieved that he had let the truth be known, despite the way it had turned out?

"Oh, Lady Sybil! I didn't know I would find you here."

Sybil gasped and turned, almost too quickly, to find Mrs. Hughes standing just behind her. Thankfully the housekeeper reached out and caught the tray, before any of its contents came crashing to the floor.

"Careful, milady!" Mrs. Hughes chuckled, steadying the tray. "Oh that was kind of you, to bring this for Mr. Carson—"

"Yes, I…" Sybil interrupted, but felt the tears sting the back of her throat, and feared that if the housekeeper saw her face, she would begin asking questions. And quite frankly, Sybil was tired of being asked questions. "I must be going, Mrs. Hughes," she managed to say, keeping her eyes on the floor. "Please, take this in to Mr. Carson. I pray that he feels better; do let him know that we are all thinking of him."

"Milady?" Mrs. Hughes was clearly confused by Sybil's behavior, but Sybil didn't bother to explain herself. Once she was assured that the housekeeper had a firm grip on the tray, she excused herself and practically sprinted down the corridor, taking the stairs two at a time, and not stopping until she reached her bedchamber, quickly bolting the door behind her.

Anna was nowhere in sight, thank God. She was completely alone. If anyone asked after her, she would feign her own illness; she didn't want to return to the dining room or the drawing room or deal with anyone right now. She simply wanted to be alone.

Tears began streaming down her cheeks: hot, angry, frustrated tears.

_Tell him what's in your heart…_

"I can't…" she wailed to the night air.

_If you still love him, let him know…_

"It's impossible! Nothing can come of it!"

_If you don't tell him, you could regret it all your life long…_

"I don't have the strength," she whispered. "I'm not brave like he is."

_You're brave enough to leave everything you know, and live the life of a so-called "commoner", doing things that a woman of your birth and station would never do, surrounded by people who don't give a damn about who your father and mother are…and yet you can't find the courage to simply "bet on him"?_

"It's not _that_ simple," she muttered out loud.

_But it's not that complicated, either._

The world seemed to become silent then. Sybil's tears even paused, and her breathing calmed. She gazed across the room at the mirror on her dressing table. With a deep breath, she pushed herself away from the locked door she had been leaning against, and slowly approached it, holding her reflection the entire time.

_Perhaps…you need to tell _yourself_ what's in your heart?_

Yes. Perhaps that was exactly what she needed to do. She still didn't feel like she had courage to tell him…but perhaps the first step was to have the courage to admit…_out loud_…what she had been feeling for so long…and despite all her misgivings…what she _still_ clung to.

With trembling hands, she gripped the edges of the table, and brought herself down onto the chair before it. She took a few quick, steady breaths, and held her gaze for a long moment, not daring to blink…

How long she sat like that, in silence, she didn't know. Time seemed to have frozen. But when she did move, when she did blink, when she did speak, it all happened at once, in one quick, shaky gasp, as if she were coming up for air after being underwater.

"I love him."

The words were out. And even though her ears were the only ones to hear them, it was still a huge revelation. Because now that they had been spoken, _truly spoken_…there was no denying them any longer. At least not to herself.

The tears began to fall again, and Sybil broke the gaze of her reflection, burying her face within her hands and letting the sobs truly take hold.

She still lacked the faith and courage that he had. She still had doubts that anything could come of these feelings. She still feared that all she would have in the end was a broken heart that would never heal.

But…despite the tears that flowed, she did feel the _tiniest_ bit of relief, as if part of a weight had been lifted from her soul. Branson had asked her to bet on him; but she realized now, that what she needed to do first was bet on _herself_.

And tonight, with only her reflection as a witness, she had taken the first step in doing just that.


	60. Sybil's Diary XVI

_WOW! Thanks so much for the wonderful response from the previous chapter! I'm so glad people enjoyed, and I hope you enjoy this one too. Quite a bit shorter than the last, but it deals with something I wish had been explored further in the show. You'll see what I mean. Anyway, thanks again for the lovely comments, and please continue to share your thoughts! Happy reading!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Sixty<strong>

April 25, 1917

I didn't sleep well at all last night. For…obvious reasons.

…

…

Well, what's done is done. No sense is crying over spilt milk, as Mrs. Patmore would say.

…

Oh Lord, listen to me. I'm acting like I've made some wild declaration to the world! Like I've stood on the dining room table and shouted to the heavens my feelings about…about…

Good God, why is it so difficult to say? Really, I'm being silly. And I'm making a mountain out of a molehill. All I did last night was look at my reflection and say, out loud, what I have been feeling for…well, for years.

There, I've said it, I've admitted it. Yes, I've had feelings for Branson for years; no, it wasn't simply "a crush"…my feelings are something much, much deeper.

…

But even now I find myself wondering, what was the point? I know that nothing…that nothing...

…

…

Oh blast it all, WHY am I writing this? I _know_ what I thought, I know what I said, why am I writing about it?

…Of course, by that same logic, why bother keeping a diary at all?

…

…

Right, well…

…

Today is the second day of Sir Richard's visit. I only saw him very briefly this morning, at breakfast. He was dressed in a tweed suit, and kept adjusting his tie throughout the meal, as well as making various comments about "dressing for the occasion". The said occasion was simply a walk through the grounds, with Mary and Mama and Papa. It certainly wasn't the sort of occasion he seemed to believe that required everyone's attention. Thankfully I had a full day at the hospital, and did not get home until after dinner, so I was spared whatever "attention-seeking comments" he made, there.

Oh Lord, there I go again.

I'm sorry, I just…I don't know why, but…I just don't care for the man! There's just something about him…I don't know what it is, but there is just something about him that makes my skin crawl.

…But I will continue to combat these feelings for Mary. She does seem eager for all of us to like him.

As I said, I spent a full day at the hospital, working mainly with a specific patient, Lt. Courtney. The poor soldier has lost his sight due to exposure to gas, however Thomas remains optimistic that it may be restored, or at least that's what he keeps telling Lt. Courtney.

Yes, have I mentioned that Thomas, our former footman, now serves at the Downton Hospital? And because we both have "something in common", Dr. Clarkson insists that we work together and share our patients.

I know that Branson doesn't care for Thomas, and I must confess, Thomas does seem to have a certain "air" about himself…however, watching him work with Lt. Courtney, I can't remember the last time I've seen someone take such a caring and nurturing interest in another patient. When I left the hospital the other night, Thomas was seated beside Lt. Courtney, reading him letters from home. This morning, when I arrived, he was penning a letter on behalf of Lt. Courtney. When Dr. Clarkson removed the lieutenant's bandages, Thomas was right there, helping. And when Lt. Courtney asked for an honest reply on how badly he looked…I don't know what Thomas said, it just out of earshot for me, but whatever it was, it brought a smile to Lt. Courtney's face, followed by a loud, warm laugh—the first I've heard since the lieutenant arrived!

This afternoon, Thomas and I spent our time helping Lt. Courtney familiarize himself with a walking cane. Tomorrow, we will create an "obstacle course" of sorts, for him to walk through. I think he'll do very well; I'm impressed with how far Lt. Courtney has come with just a few turns around the room, today! Yes, it was a very good day today, and despite the long hours, it was a day that reminded me how rewarding this job can be.

I'm not the only one who's fortunate enough to have this feeling. Edith has been working at the Drake's farm these past few weeks, and whenever she returns home after a long day there, her face is bright and her smile is shining. Sadly, we haven't had an opportunity to talk about her work there, but I can tell that she too, also finds it rewarding. I am proud of my sister, truly; I know that when she first announced that she wanted to take driving lessons, I scoffed at the whole idea, angry because I felt she was trying to "replace" Branson. But now I see how those lessons have given her…a sense of purpose, one that she can put into practice, helping this family by driving the tractor. Who knows? Perhaps other families within the village will reach out and ask for Edith's help? She certainly seems to have impressed Mr. Drake, at least that's what I have heard, based on the notes Papa has received since Edith began working there.

She was at the Drake's again, today. While I know I keep a very busy schedule at the hospital, I must admit, I have been surprised with how often she has been at the Drake's this past week. Practically every day! And she has spent some very long hours there as well. Apparently, she had only returned to Downton last night shortly before I had, at least that's what Branson told me. I really would love to talk to Edith about what exactly she does at the Drake's farm. I mean, I can only assume that the tractor is driven during daylight hours, so I wonder what other jobs she has found that keep her there after twilight? She did poke her head into my room, about an hour ago, looking…well, looking very happy. Happier than I've seen her in a long while, which did make me smile, although…I don't know, but…there was something. Her face was glowing in such a way; it looked so radiant!

I smiled up at her and commented that she seemed pleased about something. Her smile only grew larger, and then she floated into the room, and more or less flopped down onto my bed, her arms over her head and a blissful sigh escaping her lips.

She then proceeded to ask me the strangest questions. _"Do you think I'm pretty, Sybil? Pretty and clever?"_

I must say, I was a little taken aback by this._ "Of course!"_

She laughed then, and said something like,_ "oh you're just saying that because you're my sister."_

In all honesty, I didn't know what to make of that. I opened my mouth to inquire further, but she moved off the bed and then wrapped her arms around me in a warm, affectionate hug._ "Oh Sybil, I'm so happy to be helping!"_

I returned the hug, feeling glad for her…but I must confess, I found the whole situation…strange. _"And I'm happy for you, Edith. Truly."_

She grinned at me, kissed my cheek and said "goodnight", before floating out the door, a blissful sigh following her as she went.

Well…that was bizarre. But, Edith has always been trying to…well, I think she's always been trying to find herself. I know that sounds strange, but…well, I do feel I found my calling, as a nurse. And Edith, I think she's found a similar calling, in helping the farmers and tenants. And speaking as someone who knows how wonderful it can feel, to know that you're doing good and helping make a difference, well, I can't fault her for feeling so happy!

…

…Although I don't know what being "pretty" or "clever" has to do with it.

I wonder…

No, no, that can't be.

…

Right, well, I best end this entry and try to get some sleep. I should feel exhausted after the amount of work I did today, not to mention the lack of sleep I had last night. Yet…in truth, I don't feel tired at all.

…Or perhaps I'm afraid to sleep? Afraid of the dreams I will find waiting for me. I don't mean nightmares, no, nothing macabre or terrifying, but…the sweetest dreams, ones that genuinely hurt to leave when you awake.

I've been having more of those lately. And it's getting harder, to accept the vicious reality I'm forced to return to, every morning…


	61. Frustrations and Divides

_I love this chapter and I hope you do too. Obviously I think Sybil and Branson are an AWESOME couple, but one of the things I *love* about them is the friendship they had, that clearly grew into more; I truly believe that great relationships come out of friendships, and so I had tons of fun, exploring that here. THANK YOU AGAIN to all the lovely reviews! It also warms my heart to see so many people follow this story, as well as favorite it. Thanks again to you all!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Sixty-One<strong>

It was his first phone call.

Branson had answered the telephone in the Servant's Hall many times over the years; usually when Mr. Carson was upstairs and he happened to be passing (Mrs. Patmore still refused to touch the thing). But it was always for Mr. Carson—never for anyone else, including himself. So when he heard it ring that afternoon, he naturally went into the butler's pantry without a second thought, knowing that Carson was still upstairs, confined to his chamber, and answered it.

The phone calls were always for Mr. Carson…except this one.

And today…the caller was specifically seeking him.

"Hello, this is—"

"Branson?"

He paused, surprised by the sound of Sybil's voice. "Milady?"

Her voice sounded strange, like it was wrestling with several emotions. He could hear the anger and the frustration, but he could also hear the agony and the desperation. And if he were not mistaken, he could hear that she was fighting the urge to cry. Or perhaps scream. Or perhaps do both.

"I'm here, milady."

There was a pause on the line; she was clearly taking several deep breaths before continuing. "Good," she managed to say, although her voice sounded quite strained. "I'm glad it's you," she added.

While he was concerned for her, he couldn't help but smile a little at her words. "What do you need, milady?"

He heard another deep breath, as if she were trying very hard to keep her emotions under control. "I need you," she began, before gasping and then quickly adding, "to come and fetch me, right now."

In the past, under normal circumstances, he would have teased her over saying such words, while secretly relishing them and imagining she meant something else entirely.

But now was not the time to tease or to daydream. He glanced at the clock on the opposite wall, his brow furrowing as he took note of the time: half-past three.

"I thought your shift was till five—"

"Please, Branson!" she interrupted, quickly biting back the frustrated scream that nearly exploded from her throat. "Please…I…I just need to get out of here…_now_."

Nothing further needed to be said. "I'll be as quick as I can, milady," he vowed, before hanging up the phone and leaving the kitchens. He told Daisy as he passed to tell Mrs. Hughes that he was going to the hospital to bring something to Lady Sybil, something she had forgotten and desperately needed. He didn't want to lie completely, but at the same time, he didn't want to tell the exact truth, in case Sybil didn't want to return to the house right away.

He grabbed his hat and livery jacket, and quickly started the Renault, wasting no time in leaving the garage and heading straight to Downton Hospital.

His mind was reeling as he drove. What had happened? Was it a patient? She was used to death by now, as sad as it was. She had told him many stories about working with brave and broken soldiers, providing medicine, reading and writing letters, learning their names and as many intricate details about their pasts as they would allow…only to watch them die a day or two later. While he knew it was hard for her see, she had assured him that she could handle it and grown a "thick skin" to these tragedies. Still…perhaps it was one tragedy too many? Even the most stoic heart could tire.

Or was it something else? He felt a growl boil deep in his throat as he recalled his last meeting with Thomas. Had the bastard said something to her? Bullied her? Teased her? Humiliated her? If so, then Thomas better start running, because Branson would find him, run him down, but only so he couldn't run any further, giving him plenty of time to pulverize the slimy git with his fists!

The ride to the hospital normally took twenty minutes, but Branson drove so fast that he managed to arrive in just a little over ten. He had barely put the car into park before Sybil came dashing down the front steps, not waiting for him to get out and open the door, but quickly climbing into the car herself, and barking a desperate, "go!"

He didn't say anything, he simply nodded his head and released the break, quickly pulling the car out of the drive and returning back to the main road that had led him there.

Silence filled the car…save for the sounds of Sybil's groans.

He glanced at her reflection, and watched as she muttered a few things to herself, before gripping the edge of her head scarf, and attempting to pull it off.

Somehow, the scarf managed to catch one of the pins that kept her hair up, and Sybil let out a painful shriek. The shriek was followed by some intense curses, including several words that had Branson's eyes widening in stunned shock. The last time he had heard words like that had been in a Dublin pub, and had been uttered by several very drunk sailors. Branson's eyes widened even further as Sybil's curses once more returned to shrieking, only this time the shrieks were filled with anger…so much anger, that her hands balled into fists and she began beating every surface of the car she could find!

…And in the midst of it all, she was _still_ trying to tug the infernal head scarf off, and _still_ having no success.

He quickly pulled the car over to the side of the road, leapt out, and moved quickly to the back, clutching her flailing wrists and attempting to calm her.

"Hush, milady, it's alright! Hush…hush…"

Realization began to dawn on Sybil, and her struggles quickly subsided, although her breathing was still quite rapid.

"It's alright, milady…" he repeated, and once satisfied that her fists weren't going to go flying into his face, he carefully reached up and helped loosen the head scarf from the pin it was stuck too. The scarf could easily be removed now, and with a sharp tug, Sybil pulled it off. Although, by doing so, now a bulk of her hair became unpinned, and fell down around her shoulders, looking like a frizzy mess in the warm spring air.

"Oh to hell with it," Sybil muttered, throwing the scarf across the car seat, along with several hairpins.

Branson's eyes widened once again, but he chose to keep his mouth shut. "Shall we return to Downton, milady?"

"No," Sybil answered, her voice clipped and her tone ice cold. Her eyes had snapped up to his, but they immediately softened at the concerned look he held for her. "I'm sorry, Branson, I don't mean to snap, not at you."

He gave her a small smile, more to reassure her that he hadn't taken offense. "'Tis alright, milady, I don't mind. In all honesty, I'm just glad you didn't punch me."

A small laugh escaped her throat, which immediately warmed his heart and brought a smile to his face. However, he still looked at her with concern, wondering what on earth had angered her so fiercely.

"Would you like me to drive you somewhere?" he gently asked, deciding not to pry on what had happened, at least not yet.

Sybil shook her head. "No…I think…I think I would much rather take a walk, if you don't mind."

"Not at all, milady," he said, offering her another reassuring smile. The particular road they had stopped was a small, dirt lane—a road hardly used by motorcars, and certainly not one of the main roads where other cars would pass. He had purposefully chosen to take this route on the way back to Downton, knowing it would take longer, thus offering Sybil a chance to get whatever was bothering her off her chest. He bit his lip and took a deep breath, before asking his next question. "Would you…care for some company?"

Sybil paused for moment, clearly contemplating his question. He hoped she would say yes, but at the same time, he wouldn't push her if she told him that she would rather be alone.

…But he was still hoping she would say yes.

"No…" she began, and he could feel his heart sink. "…I wouldn't mind some company."

And like that, his heart sprang back up. Still, he kept the elation to himself, and simply offered her his hand to help her down from the car.

Sybil looked ahead at the lane where they had stopped. "Good Lord, this almost looks like that horrid road where Dragon stopped and Gwen and I fell flat on our faces in a mud puddle."

Branson bit back the grin at the memory. "You both certainly gave me a fright when I saw you later that night. Like something out of a horror story!"

Sybil gave him a glare, but anyone could see that it was light-hearted, and she playfully threatened to punch him with her fist. As playful as the gesture was, Branson still moved quickly away—he had seen what her fists were capable of!

They walked for several minutes in silence, simply listening to the sounds of nature around them. He knew that when she was ready, she would tell him what had happened; he wouldn't bother prying. And then, after no more than a few yards, Sybil stopped, and turned to look at him, throwing her hands up into the air in utter frustration, before muttering, "I could just…oh I could just…just _PUNCH_ Dr. Clarkson!"

He was taken aback by her outburst. Of all people, the good doctor was the last person he had suspected to upset Sybil so. He opened his mouth to inquire further, but there was no need; Sybil began walking again (stomping, really) her arms and hands as furiously animated as her stomping feet, and her voice rising with each breath.

"He just doesn't understand! He can't understand! No, he _refuses_ to understand!" she began to shout. She continued walking (at a very quick pace) and Branson found himself practically jogging after her to keep up. "A blind man could see the good we are doing! It's obvious he's making progress while under our care! To remove him now would be an utter disaster!"

Branson's brow furrowed. "Who?"

"Lt. Courtney!" Sybil snapped, before giving him a slight apologetic glance, which was quickly followed by another frustrated groan. "Do you remember how, only two days ago, you came to the hospital, and I told Thomas to give Lt. Courtney his pills?"

He remembered, although if truth be told, what he remembered was how lovely Sybil looked, despite her frustration at his message from her mother. He remembered admiring her as she calmly commanded the room, and he remembered inwardly chuckling when she put Thomas in his place by ordering him about. "Aye," he answered.

"Well, yesterday and today, Thomas and I have been working with Lt. Courtney, helping him adjust to…" she paused, looking rather pained to be saying the words. "…to his blindness," she continued. "Oh Branson, I've worked with patients who have lost fingers, and they moan that their lives are over. But Lt. Courtney…despite Thomas' hope that he will one day regain his sight, has accepted his injury and is trying to…well, make 'the best of it'."

Branson nodded his head, but still looked confused. "So…what did Dr. Clarkson do?"

Sybil threw her hands up in the air and quickened her pace, and once more Branson found himself jogging to keep up. "Lt. Courtney has made great strides; I've never worked with a patient who has learned faster than he. And while I know this may sound as if I'm praising myself…and Thomas, I'm truly not. All of the achievements Lt. Courtney has received, are completely his own. _BUT_, I do believe, that part of the reason he has achieved so much in such a short amount of time is…well…being here!"

Branson was starting to put the pieces together. "And…Dr. Clarkson wants him to…go elsewhere?"

"YES!" Sybil shouted, stopping to kick a stone by her boot. It was a powerful kick; the stone must have flown a good ten feet! She turned then, and began marching back in the opposite direction, back towards the car. "Thomas and I had created an obstacle course of sorts outside in the hospital courtyard. We took Lt. Courtney out there and were helping him use his cane to move about the course; oh Branson, he did so well! By the third time, he had the course memorized by simply counting his steps! And even when Thomas changed the course, Lt. Courtney wasn't thrown; he simply tapped his cane around the obstacles and counted his steps anew. He had the new course memorized by the second turn!"

Branson smiled, but if truth be told, it was more out of happiness for Sybil, and the passion to which she displayed while telling him her story. But his eyes filled with sadness when he saw her expression change.

"Dr. Clarkson had apparently been watching us work with Lt. Courtney. He came into the courtyard and complimented him on his success…and said that he had proven himself so capable, that perhaps it was time to for him to leave us."

Branson was confused by this. "I…I don't understand. Why should he leave—"

"Because the hospital is for patients who are very sick or extremely injured," she explained, although she said the words through clenched teeth. "We are not a convalescent home; the care and rehabilitation of patients like Lt. Courtney should best be served elsewhere," she stopped walking and turned to face him, her anger evident across her face. "Basically, Lt. Courtney is taking up too much space; he's occupying a bed that needs to be given to a 'worthier' patient." She resumed her walking, muttering as she went. "Alright, to be fair, Dr. Clarkson didn't say _that_, but…that was how it sounded! It certainly seemed to be how Lt. Courtney felt, which was obvious to everyone BUT Dr. Clarkson!"

Branson quickened his pace until he was walking right beside her again. "So…Lt. Courtney is more or less, being forced to leave…"

Sybil nodded her head, her eyes staring straight ahead.

He chewed on his lip for a moment, not wanting to upset her further, but at the same time wanting to make sense of the situation. "Forgive me, milady…but…isn't this a good thing? I mean, him going to a place where they can help him rehabilitate and continue to strengthen his new skills?"

She stopped, and Branson winced, wondering if she was going to turn her head and hurl several piercing insults at him for his "insensitivity", chalking him up with Dr. Clarkson as a man who "just didn't get it."

But she didn't. In fact, when she turned to look at him, she didn't look angry at all. Her expression had changed completely, and all of the anger and frustration seemed to have been washed away…only to be replaced with sadness and concern. The look was utterly heartbreaking…and Branson felt like a right bastard for putting that look on her face.

"Oh Tom…" she moaned, her voice soft and full of worry and unshed tears, that Branson didn't even realize until a few minutes later that she had called him by his first name. "I wish that were true…but…I…I just have this horrible feeling…"

She paused then, her hand flying to her mouth, as if she were gulping back the tears that threatened to fall. The urge to take a few steps closer and enfold her in his arms was extremely tempting. He wanted to comfort her and promise her that it would be alright, even though he didn't know if that were possible. He wanted to tell her it was alright to cry in front of him, that he wouldn't judge her or think her weak. He wanted to soothe her, assure her, find Dr. Clarkson himself, and punch him for her! Every fiber in his being was telling him to do all of these things, and his arms _ached_…

But she began to move again, even faster than before…although there was a slight moment when she seemed to be leaning towards him…

"I normally wouldn't disagree with Dr. Clarkson," Sybil explained as she moved, not daring to look at him, it seemed. Her eyes were fixed and steady, straight ahead. "But Lt. Courtney…I…I just think he benefits from this place…I think that part of his success is perhaps…being _here_, with people he has come to know and trust. And to take him away—no, to _force_ him away, now…I…I just think would be the worst thing to do!"

They had reached the car, and Sybil paused, taking a few deep, shaky breaths, before finally turning and facing him once more. "I'm worried, Branson. Very worried that…that this could do him real harm."

He didn't know what to say to that. He didn't exactly know what she meant by it, either. Was she suggesting…?

"Did Lt. Courtney have anything to say to Dr. Clarkson's 'suggestion'?"

She sighed and shook her head. "He attempted to argue at first, but in that polite way people are taught," she grumbled. "Unfortunately, it allowed Dr. Clarkson to _politely_, argue back, and that was when he explained that the hospital needed the space for patients who were in much dire need."

Branson nodded his head. "But as you said, anyone could see, if they were looking, that Lt. Courtney didn't want to go."

Sybil's eyes met his, and for a moment there was a light within them. "Exactly."

A moment of silence passed between them, but they held one another's gaze, allowing that silent understanding to settle over them.

Branson was the first to break it. "So…what happens now?"

Sybil groaned and leaned against the side of the car. "Now we alert the nearest convalescent home, hoping they have the space, and if not, then we contact another. Dr. Clarkson no doubt has already done that. Then tomorrow, either Thomas or myself will begin to prepare Lt. Courtney for his journey; pack his things and see him off."

"As early as tomorrow?" Branson asked, surprised with how quickly this change would take place.

Sybil made a face. "I'm sure that if it were possible, Dr. Clarkson would send him packing as soon as tonight."

Branson could understand Sybil's frustration; it seemed like a very brash and quick transition. "Where is the nearest convalescent home?"

Sybil made another face. "York," she muttered. "And if that one is full, then Manchester."

His eyes widened in surprise. "There's nothing closer?"

Sybil merely shook her head. "But there should be," she muttered.

Another moment of silence passed, this time with the two of them leaning against the car, his hands in his pockets and hers folded across her chest. The birds sang overhead, the breeze was warm and blew calmly through the trees, and the sun was bright without a cloud in the sky. It was a beautiful spring afternoon…a vast contrast to the mood that had fallen over Downton Hospital.

"I wish…" she began, breaking the silence, but pausing as if to rethink her words.

Branson looked at her, curious to what she had been about to say. "You wish…?"

Sybil sighed, and turned to look at him. "It's just that…sometimes, I find myself wishing that…that my…my status, if you will, as the Earl of Grantham's daughter, could be used to…well, to sway certain attitudes and opinions."

He gazed at her for a moment, taking in her words and digesting them. He had ceased his pursuits in winning her heart…at least that's what he continued to tell himself. He greeted each morning with a reminder that he should simply be satisfied and happy to have her friendship, and if truth be told, he was amazed as well as delighted that despite what had happened last November in York, they had somehow managed to renew that friendship, and make it stronger than it had been in a long time. Branson often wondered if a part of that was because Sybil was now working as a nurse, a job that certainly brought her closer to "his level". He would be lying if he denied that there were times he even forgot she was a member of the British aristocracy. But her words now reminded him about that divide…and how, no matter how often he tried to convince himself otherwise, he _was_ still in love with her, and he _still_ yearned to have her as his wife…but that a union between two such people would never be accepted.

"It's wrong, of course."

He was jolted from his thoughts by her words. "Beggin' your pardon?"

"It's wrong to think like that," she explained. "Meaning, to wish that I could use my…my background…my family name, my father's title, to get what I want." She looked down at her feet, but Branson couldn't take his eyes off her profile. "That's not how a proper democracy works, is it?"

She looked up at him then, and he swore his heart stopped as he met her eyes, shining and blue. "No…" he murmured, finally managing to find his voice. "But…if I may be so bold as to say, milady…I think you would be a very kind dictator."

Sybil burst out laughing then, and Branson found himself grinning back. He was glad he could make her smile.

"Oh you shouldn't say such things," she giggled. "I would surely let all that power go to my head. Besides, what would your Socialist brothers think?"

"That I've gone soft," he sighed. "But I would simply tell them that the other side brainwashed me."

Sybil laughed again. "Now _that_ I find hard to believe!"

Branson chuckled, but inwardly, he thought, _oh milady, you have no idea…_

"Shall we return to Downton, milady? That is, if you're ready…?"

She smiled and nodded her head. "Thank you, Branson." He knew that her gratitude went beyond simply coming and fetching her when she called. But she didn't have to explain, and truly, there was no need.

He merely nodded his head and smiled. "You're welcome, milady."

They both climbed back into car, and traveled the rest of the way in silence, once more listening to the sounds of the countryside, only this time the atmosphere was far less tense. As he glanced at her reflection once more, looking accepting and serenely out the window, he found himself smiling and rethinking what he had previously contemplated.

_Maybe that divide isn't as great as I thought? _


	62. 1917: A Letter to Susan

_Hooray for inspiration that inspire quick updates! And hooray for wonderful comments that also push inspiration! Thanks so much for your readership and feedback! I know we all want to see them get together, and we still have quite a ways to go, but just be patient, it's coming! ;o) Thanks again and happy reading!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Sixty-Two<strong>

Dear Susan,

I apologize for the delay in my letters. I know it's been…oh does it matter? It's been far too long, and I take complete blame. Just as I know you have been busy, so too have I. The hospital here in Downton has proved to be every bit as chaotic as the one where we trained, back in York. Who would have suspected? However, I fear it may be a sign of things to come; sometimes…it seems as if this war will never end.

Oh Susan…forgive me, I know I have no right to "unburden" myself to you, especially after neglecting to respond to your letters, but…I know you would understand better than anyone.

I lost…I mean, _we_ lost a patient last night. I know that may sound strange; we have certainly lost patients before, and sadly he won't be the last. But…I've never lost a patient like this. And the death of a patient has never…has never affected me as deeply as this one has.

I found him, very early this morning. I had just arrived for my dawn shift, and the first thing I did was to go and check on him.

Oh God, Susan…I…his wrists…I've never seen…I mean, I've never discovered someone who has…who has…who has died _like_ that…

…

…

Forgive me. I know that the ink has run a bit there…and by how, I'm sure you can guess. But I'm better now.

Lt. Courtney was his name. A fine, brave officer who had been at Oxford, prior to the War. Lt. Courtney came to us, suffering from gas blindness, and despite the rare cases where soldiers regain their sight after such trauma, the odds of Lt. Courtney regaining his looked extremely slim. Still, despite this sad reality, Lt. Courtney accepted it and was determined to make do. I worked closely with a medical corporal, in helping Lt. Courtney learn his way around with a walking cane, and Susan…oh, you would be amazed with what he was able to accomplish in just a matter of days! Indeed, we were all stunned and elated for the Lieutenant! But…our hospital, due to its small size, is unable to take the time to help rehabilitate patients. So Major Clarkson, the head doctor here on staff, ordered that Lt. Courtney be transferred…despite his obvious protests that he wished to remain here, amongst people he trusted.

Oh Susan…I fear that he did this because…because we were forcing him to leave. In fact, I'm sure of it.

Have you ever encountered anything like this? If so, please tell me how you and the others on the hospital staff handled it. Because I'm at an utter loss. One minute I'm raging, wanting to…to hit something! The next, I feel like I'm ready to burst into tears. And then the next minute, I simply feel numb, void of anything…

Please…any advice you can offer would be most helpful.

The person who seems to have taken this news the hardest is the medic who assisted me in working with Lt. Courtney. His name is Thomas, and he's a former footman from Downton. But he left us, just before the War got underway, and has only recently returned to serve at the hospital here, after serving several years on the front lines, in France. While I like to think I formed a strong bond with Lt. Courtney, I know that Thomas certainly had. In fact, I would daresay Lt. Courtney felt the same. Thomas was always here, and whenever I left at the end of the day, or arrived on the next, I would find Thomas sitting beside him, and he certainly had a gift for making Lt. Courtney laugh and smile.

Poor Thomas. I think he blames himself. For the first time since Lt. Courtney's arrival, he wasn't here during the night shift. He…well, he argued, so to speak, with Major Clarkson, about sending Lt. Courtney away. I argued too, but I don't count in Major Clarkson's eyes (I'm not trying to sound bitter—even though I clearly am, but… oh you know what I mean Susan!) Anyway, Thomas was dismissed from his evening duties on account of publically disagreeing. I'm sure he thinks that if he were here, he could have prevented Lt. Courtney from taking his life…

I tried to approach him, Thomas I mean. I wanted to…well, to offer my sympathies, since I had spotted him earlier, sitting in an abandoned room, crying. I thought perhaps together, we could muddle through the pain. But when I tried to approach him later, he was as cold as a fish, and barely acknowledged me.

It will never get easier, will it? Accepting all this…tragedy and death. I've told my family, I've reassured them, that I'm fine, that I have a thick skin, that I have "gotten used to it"—the horrors of war. But…I don't know if anyone can truly "get used to it", you know what I mean?

Something needs to change, Susan. Oh Lord, what a statement; so many things need to change! But what I mean is, it's ridiculous that nurses and medics here are expected to heal and help patients overcome the horrors of their injuries…but at the earliest sign of progress, send them off elsewhere, to a new place where they know no one, and must more or less, "begin anew"! Lt. Courtney wasn't the first patient who protested the order to be transferred…but after what happened, I truly am hoping he will be the last.

What I mean is…well, my cousin, who serves as the Chair to the hospital, she made the most outrageous suggestion today…but one to which I think is absolutely brilliant! Approach a family, who has a large estate, and ask them to consider turning it into a convalescent home until the War ends?

Any guesses as to which estate should be considered?

No doubt your mouth has dropped open; I confess my own fell open too at my cousin's suggestion. But truly, as she said, it is the only solution and one that has been staring us in the face this whole time! Convert Downton (or at the very least, parts of Downton) into such a place, where soldiers who are mending, who are no longer in the "danger zone", can go to rehabilitate, with staff they are already familiar with from the hospital, thus (hopefully!) removing the likelihood of fear and despair at once again, facing the unknown! Major Clarkson wasn't so sure Mama or Papa would agree, let alone consider it, but I quickly reassured him that yes, yes I think they would! And then I further added, "After this, I think they can be made to."

So what do you think? Is it a hopeless cause? Or do you think it will work? I do think it can, but my cousin and I have yet to approach my family about it. We are going to so later this evening, after dinner. I'm writing this letter to you now before I go downstairs to join them, with hopes that it will somehow give me courage! And in all honesty Susan, it's not my mother or father I'm worried about convincing; it's my grandmother. Even though it's been many, many years since she was Countess of Grantham, she still attempts to rule the roost with an iron fist! And I fear that if I'm not careful, I could lose my temper, and that will surely be a mortal blow for our cause!

I tried to get the opinions of some of my fellow nurses before I left the hospital; they all thought it could do wonders for the patients, if it could be pulled off. Of course, at the end of the day, they can go home after a long shift. I wonder how the staff here will see it?

I told Branson, our chauffeur, about the idea, wanting to see what he thought. He was shocked, to be sure…but he had stopped by the hospital earlier in the day, at the same time several Red Cross vehicles arrived with men in urgent need of care. Oh Susan, we were overflowing! And Branson had noticed that too, and commented to me later, on the drive home, that perhaps it was a good idea; turning Downton into such a place. I also told him about Lt. Courtney's death; he was very sad to hear it, especially since I had told him about my frustrations and misgivings over the order for his transfer. Branson is the first member of the Downton staff—no, truly, the first person who resides at Downton, to know about this idea of mine and my cousin's. Although I'm sure my cousin will tell her son about it too; I'm sure we can win Mama and Papa around with his influence! But as I was saying…it felt good, knowing that at least there was someone else who knew, someone who could see the good in such a suggestion, and who I felt was there, on my side, to whom I could go to and vent my frustrations if need be.

Oh stop your snickering, Susan! I can hear it all the way from Liverpool! But so there, I thought I would tell you _myself_ about Branson, since I know you're always trying to embarrass me with your silly questions, calling him my "star crossed lover". Really Susan, don't be so…so…

…

Well, just don't!

Anyway…how is James? Any further news on the wedding? Remember, you must tell me as soon as you pick a date so I can schedule the time off to attend! Oh I am glad, by the way, that his sight is improving with each day. I'm also glad to hear the news that he did manage to find a position in one of the shipping companies there in Liverpool! I do remember how you told me that was his dream, and I'm very happy for you both.

Oh Susan, I wish I could write more, but the clock just chimed the hour, and I best make myself ready to "face the music" so to speak, and offer my idea to Granny. By the time you receive this letter, a decision will have been made; let us hope it was the right one! I will keep you posted on the updates.

And I promise to do a better job of keeping correspondence! Thank you, as always Susan, for being a dear friend. God bless you!

Affectionately,

—Sybil


	63. A Second Letter to Nowhere

_Another example of a chapter that ended up growing a pair of legs and walking on its own, thus surprising me with where it went! Thank you again for the lovely comments and reviews! They truly do inspire me and help me pump out the chapters! _

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><p><strong>Chapter Sixty-Three<strong>

Dear Martin,

Well…here we are again. I know it's been a while since I've written to you…five months, if I'm correct. The last time I wrote to you was at Christmas; I told you about all my hopes for the New Year. I also told you about how I had "survived" my first meeting with Lady Sybil Crawley—and how I was determined, that when she and I would next meet, I would move forward from what had happened in November.

…Did I shock you then? No doubt the shock disappeared when you realized what I truly meant; no, I did not mean I would "forget about her" and leave Downton Abbey. I simply meant…I would stop pursuing her heart, and simply satisfy myself with her friendship. For as masochistic as it may sound to you, I have discovered that I…that I can't leave. Not yet, at least.

I know, I know, I've been saying that for…years, I suppose. But it's true, I can't. Nor do I want to, if I'm honest with myself. Are you disappointed with me? I figured you were, hence why I haven't written since then.

…However, I know that today is…the anniversary of your death, and I couldn't keep silent any longer. I miss you Martin, and even though I know that you will never receive these letters, I…I find sometimes that I can't help it. By simply writing, I feel as if you're still here…

I stopped at a pub earlier, and had two pints of Guinness; one for you and one for me. I then proceeded to the Downton Hospital, where I was greeted with…I don't quite know how to describe it; bedlam? Horror? The place was absolutely overwhelmed. There were several medical vehicles, each crammed full of injured patients, some I swear were barely breathing.

…

…

Somehow, I managed to make my way through the chaos. I don't know how really; every inch of space was taken up by a bed or cot, and still, the patients kept coming. The smell was unbearable, and the noise was ear-splitting. I felt my stomach coil with every turn, and I feared that I would lose my breakfast on top of some poor lad. I've never seen anything like it, Martin, and I pray I never have to see anything like it again.

The whole reason I was there was to drop off a special packed lunch for Lady Sybil, prepared by her Ladyship. Yes, Lady Sybil is a genuine nurse; she finished her training and now serves at the Downton Hospital. She's brilliant, Martin, truly; she's come into her own and I couldn't be prouder of her. And every time I see her (yes, I have seen her "in action" on several occasions) I can't get over how cool, how calm and collected she is. She talks about assisting in surgeries as other girls would talk about assisting a friend in picking out a new frock. She has seen all sorts of horrors and tragedies, and yet somehow she's able to keep a level head and a gentle spirit. Truly…I don't know anyone, man or woman, quite like her.

…

…

I made a promise to myself, when this year began, that I would cease my pursuits to win her hand…and her heart. I had resigned myself to what had happened last November…or so I thought.

…You probably knew better, Martin. No doubt you were looking down on me and shaking your head when I made this vow, muttering under your breath "it will never work", before calling me some right swear names that I no doubt deserve.

I wanted to be satisfied with "just her friendship", truly I did. But…I realize now that can never be. I _can't_ just be friends. I will always love her, I will always long for her, and I know now that I will never be satisfied with another woman. Good Lord, Martin, I haven't even looked at another girl the same way I look at Sybil since _before_ I came to Downton!

I suppose I've always known this. While I had once made my resolution to "just be" her friend and nothing more…I never promised to look for another girl to fill the void in my heart...because I didn't want to. No other girl can fill that void; I'm completely lost. But…I don't mind. And despite what you may think, I don't think…I don't think it's as impossible as it once seemed…

…

Something's changed, Martin.

When I made my proposal last year, I think I frightened her. Meaning, I think she found the whole situation just…too overwhelming. I mean, she was heading off to a new place, where she knew no one, in an environment very different from the one she was brought up in…and then, to have all that on her mind, plus my sudden declaration…oh Martin, I could kick myself when I look back at the situation. I was rash, I was only thinking of myself, of how much I would miss her, and I just…I just never considered how it would sound, how it would feel…to be her in that moment.

I have thought about this, for a long time. Two months did seem like utter agony at the time, but they went so much faster than I expected. And then she was back…and…maybe if I had waited? What if I had waited to declare my heart to her…now?

She's not the same woman as she once was; she's grown up so much, she's seen a side of the world that so many women in her position refuse to acknowledge, and she _loves_ working in it! With that experience now, I think…I think it wouldn't have frightened her so much, it wouldn't have shocked her…if I had told her my feelings now, instead.

Have I confused you? After all, why am I mentioning this now? What's done is done, I have already declared myself to her, and she still refused—

NO! No, she didn't, and I see that now!

She didn't answer me; she didn't say yes, that's true, but at the same time…_she didn't say no!_ And when I told her that I would leave and she wouldn't have to see me again…she _begged_ me not to go! And even though it gave me agony when I received that first letter, still, it was _she_ that initiated it! She's _always_ initiated our correspondence! And then when I think about all the conversations we've had over the years, as well as the recent ones…I…I can't help it, I have only come to one conclusion…

She does care.

_She DOES care! _

And…yes, I do think, I do think that she…may in fact…_love_ _me_ in return.

…She just hasn't realized it yet.

…

But she will.

…

Alright, alright, I can hear you screaming at me from your heavenly cloud. _"What makes you so sure __now__, Tom?"_

Well, when I visited her at the hospital to give her the lunch, I couldn't stop looking around at all the devastation. I asked her, _"is it everything you thought it would be?"_ To which she responded, _"No…it's more savage and cruel than anything I can imagine."_ But she didn't stop there; she continued, saying, _"But I feel useful for the first time in my life, and that's a good thing."_

I could only nod. But her words struck me. And before I realized it, I found myself asking, _"So you wouldn't go back, to your life before the war?" _

And there was no hesitation. _"No, I can never go back to that again."_

…

You think I'm a fool, don't you? More hopeful musings from a lovesick fool? Perhaps…but this time feels different, Martin. This time…I don't quite know how to describe it, but this time…I feel hope. More hope than I ever felt before.

I once thought…that the reason she didn't respond to my declaration was because she had no feelings for me. But I realize now, as I mentioned before, that it was just too much to take in, in that moment. She's not like other girls, as I have often told you. She's…well, she's my suffragette. While other debutants were planning coming out balls, she was more eager to see the British Museum. She has a passionate heart for politics and social justice, and she has always treated people like myself, people "beneath her station" not only with respect, but as equals.

Now that she's had these experiences, now that she's working and making a difference, now that she's discovered that she's happy for this change and would willingly, _not_ return to how things once were…

How can I not have hope?

I honestly don't think she would miss this life, this living as a "Lady" within the walls of a place like Downton Abbey. I think she wants more. And alright, I know I have little to offer, but…Martin, despite my humble means, I do feel that I can give her the things that she does long for!

So I'm declaring before you (as if you haven't guessed by now) that I am breaking my promise.

I'm not giving up; I'm not giving up on winning Sybil's heart (which as cock-sure as it sounds, I do think I _may_ have) and I'm certainly not giving up on winning her hand.

…But, I have learned my lesson from before.

As I said, when I told her how I felt last November, I was too rash, I wasn't thinking clearly. I'm not going to make that mistake again. I'm going to be much more cautious, and bide my time. She does care for me, I know she does, and yes…I do think, deep down that she does…love me! But it's not an easy emotion to face, something I must remember, because I too fought it for…years, probably. Love can be frightening…and no doubt, it frightens her too (it _still_ frightens me at times!) But I won't push, as difficult as that may be. I will fight the urge to rush her, but I will be ready to guide her. And by the grace of God, she too will realize that the world is changing and that when this bloody war is finally over, the idea of marrying a working class Irish socialist isn't too far beyond the realm of possibility.

So there you have it; my declaration to you, dear cousin.

I'm not asking nor expecting your approval. But I do miss you…and you are the only other person I have ever bared my heart and soul to, and the only other who knows my deepest secrets, as well as every foolish dream I have ever imagined.

So now you know another.

No…now you know my dearest, and perhaps most foolish dream of all. Not to be a politician, not to be some life-changing leader, bringing freedom to our homeland…but to be the husband of Sybil Crawley.

That's all that matters. And yes, Martin, as mad as it sounds…it will happen.

I hope I haven't disappointed you too much. And even if you can't be happy for me with my decision…at least rest in peace knowing that…_I_ am happy with it. I love you and I miss you, you old dosser.

—Tom


	64. 1917: A Second Letter to Gwen

_First off, on a completely unrelated note-bravo Britain on a FANTASTIC Olympics! Next to the 1996 Atlanta games, this was my favorite! All they needed was a Downton Abbey sketch at some point during the ceremonies ;o)_

_Anyway, here's the latest update and "final" installment of this particular volume (it's moving slowly, but the story is moving!) My goal is to get this whole thing completed before season 3 of Downton premieres in the US (which is in January 2013). My second goal is to try and get as much done (possibly to the point where they finally KISS!) before it premieres in the UK (which I know is in September-ahhh!) Don't know if it's going to happen, but I will try my hardest! Thank you again for following this story and leaving comments when you can-they truly do inspire!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Sixty-Four<strong>

Dearest Gwen,

Good gracious, forgive me for the confusion and panic I may have caused you with my last letter. I wrote it in a time of extreme…frustration. Oh all right, I was angry, as you no doubt could tell. And I made very little sense. That letter you received was written right after a rather, shall we say, passionate…"discussion" with my grandmother, on the possibility of making Downton a convalescent home for recovering soldiers.

Yes, that's right, you didn't misread that. Cousin Isobel and I would like Downton Abbey to become a convalescent home.

It was her idea, really, but I think it's brilliant! The Downton Hospital is small, as you know; we can barely hold the patients we have, and are often overwhelmed. Because of this, we have no room for patients who are rehabilitating after illness or surgery, so we must more or less, pack them up and ship them out to other hospitals or places that have convalescent homes. Yet these men, these brave, brave men, have already been through so much trauma, that the thought of going to another place, and having to go through everything they have already endured, _again_…with new staff who don't know anything about them…well, for some, it's simply too much. And that happened, quite recently. I—_we_, lost a patient, because he couldn't bear the thought of having to go through all of that.

So Cousin Isobel declared that the answer to this problem has been staring us in the face, and she's absolutely right! Downton Abbey is the perfect place! It's close to the hospital, and therefore many of the doctors, medics, and nurses on staff who have already built bonds with these patients could easily work some shifts at the hospital, and others at Downton!

…Yet Granny has been a thorn in this entire scheme!

The night I wrote your letter, Cousin Isobel and I had presented the idea to Mama and Papa; they were stunned, to be sure. So were Mary and Edith. Matthew, thank God, was there, and tried to offer a positive perspective, having witnessed our recent influx of patients at the hospital. But Granny didn't bother to wait for a reply from my parents; she quickly let it be known that she disagreed with the whole idea, and thought it was utterly preposterous. She said some other things too, things I refuse to repeat, but as you can see now, it was those words that set me off and caused me to write that horrid, angry, and confusing letter, to which I once again apologize for.

Oh Gwen, that was over three weeks ago! Here we are, nearing the end of May, and I am _still_ waiting for a decision on what will happen!

Papa sees the importance in such an idea, and I do believe Matthew tried to convince him by appealing to his "patriotic" side, but I know that really it is Mama who will need the most convincing…and Granny is prepared to fight tooth and nail to convince her to say "no!" Although…she may have gone too far.

In the midst of our argument on that night, Granny (who still thinks of herself as the current Countess of Grantham at times) attempted to make a ruling decision, thus "stepping on Mama's toes", which I know Mama dislikes, _greatly_. Mama was quick to remind Granny that _she_ is the present Countess, and that Downton belongs to her and Papa, which Granny (after getting over the shock of Mama's comment) attempted to respond with a pout, which only caused Mama to give a cutting retort…and that was the end of that. At least it was, for the moment.

Granny is "punishing" us all by refusing Papa's invitation to join us for dinner. She hasn't darkened the door since that fateful night, and while she will receive Mary and Edith at her home, she will not speak to Mama, and completely blames me for all this.

Well, in truth she blames Cousin Isobel the most, and sees her as someone who has "preyed upon my youth and naïveté," which naturally, I take offense too. How often, Gwen, are young people dismissed because of their age? How often are women? TOO OFTEN!

…

…

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I nearly lost my temper (again), but I am better now, truly.

But oh Gwen, if Mama doesn't care what Granny thinks, then why is she taking so long in making up her mind on the matter? Alright, I know that's not fair, and despite my present feelings, I don't want Granny to despise us for the rest of our lives. But…why can't they see what I see? Why can't the see how…how _important_ this is? How _necessary?_ I truly am at an utter loss…

I asked Branson to see if he could get the opinions of the other staff. Naturally, Carson is against the idea. But he and Granny are two sides of the same coin. Anna sees the value of the idea, but wonders if there are enough maids to handle the extra work. Mrs. Patmore felt similarly, although her main concern was whether she'd be expected to cook for all these extra mouths. As for Mrs. Hughes…I think she's more concerned about the "virtue" of the maids on staff in a house full of strange men.

Oh Lord, Gwen, this is hardly how I thought it would be. I was…I don't know, maybe I am naïve; I was just…so sure that Papa would throw in his full support, and Mama would follow likewise, and that would be the end of it. That by the time you received this letter, we would be a fully, functioning convalescent home. But here we are…closing in on summer, and still, nothing. And it will take _at least_ an entire month to prepare the house for such a transformation! And I fear we're running out of time…

At least there's one person who seems to support me in all of this. Thank God for Branson, Gwen. I miss you so much, and I am happy for you, truly…but I am also happy that I still have a very dear…friend...here, close to me at Downton.

…

…

Gwen…there's…there's something I would…um…well, there's something I would like to tell you, but…but you must promise to not tell a soul! I know you and Anna exchange letters, as well as with…others, but…this has to be a secret between you and I and no one else. Can you do that for me Gwen? Because…because…oh Gwen, I need to talk to someone about this, otherwise, I'll…I'll go mad!

…

You see, I…I…

That is…I….well…

…

Do you think Mary should tell Matthew? About…about her feelings?

…

…

You see, I overheard a conversation, between Mary and Carson. He told her to follow her heart, and that if she still loves him, to tell him so…

…

…And…and I do believe she still loves him. But I know it's complicated; after all, Matthew is engaged, and Mary may very soon find herself engaged to Sir Richard Carlisle. But…I think Carson is right, I think she should tell Matthew…at least then she'll know for certain if he still feels the same...

Or do you think it's too late?

…

Maybe it is too late; maybe he's gone forward; maybe he's…he's forgotten (or wants to forget). Maybe he doesn't love me anymore…

Oh! No, no, I mean—I mean maybe _Matthew_ doesn't love _Mary_—although, I don't believe that. I mean—I didn't mean Matthew loving _me_, not like that, I…I…

…

…

…

Oh sod it.

If I can't tell you, Gwen, who can I tell?

…

Do you remember that letter I once wrote to you, a few years ago, after you started working in Mr. Bromidge's office? I asked you about...about...love? And how you know if you...feel it?

Well...the reason I asked you then, and the reason I bring it up now is because...because...

I have…I have…_feelings_…for…for Branson.

…Feelings that are more than…than friendly. And I've had them for…I don't know how long, really, but…for quite some time.

…

…

Oh Lord, Gwen, what am I to do? Are you surprised by this news? Or have you known?

…

I know that it's impossible. But…I can't stop it! I can't seem to stop my heart from feeling this way…and Lord knows I've tried.

Please Gwen…I need your advice. How do I stop it? How do I stop my heart from having these feelings? Because…because it _hurts_. I've never felt this way about anyone, truly; but it's hopeless. I know that it's hopeless! So why is it that despite what my head knows to be true, my heart refuses to listen? It makes no sense! Why is that? Why can't…love…make sense?

…

…

I'm a complete mess, as you can see; far too much stress, not only with the hospital and the ordeal with the convalescent home, but _this_ on top of it all.

Oh Gwen, forgive me, I didn't mean to do this, to just…become a blubbering mess and unburden myself upon you as I did. Good God, if I caused you to worry after my last letter, how will this one affect you? I must admit; a part of me is tempted to throw this letter away and write you another.

But I won't. I've been hiding too much, and…and I need to talk about this, with someone other than myself (a conversation that hardly goes anywhere). But please Gwen, I know I can trust you, but please…say nothing to Branson. I…I'm not ready to reveal that much to him…not yet, at least. (What am I saying? I don't think I can ever reveal _that_ to him!)

Well…I must say I didn't expect this letter to turn out as it did! But…in all honesty, Gwen…I must admit, I do feel a little better for having told someone. And I thank you for being a dear friend for whom I can talk to.

Please, do not worry about me (as strange as that sounds); I will be fine, truly. I'm not going to go and do anything dramatic—alright, nothing _too_ dramatic. Thank you, Gwen…and please know that I am thinking of you and keeping your family in my prayers. God bless you.

Your friend,

—Sybil


	65. Changes

_We move forward in the Sybil/Branson story, preparing to tackle some of the more "unpleasant" moments that the couple faced, including Branson's infamous "not at your best!" scene. I remember when watching that scene, wondering why this was happening *now*? Had something set him off? I figured there had to be something that we the audience hadn't seen, so this chapter's primary purpose to begin paving the way towards that moment._

_Thanks again for the wonderful feedback! I hope you enjoy and please drop a comment if you can; they really do help motivate and inspire._

* * *

><p><strong>Volume II, Part III<strong>

_Summer, 1917_

**Chapter Sixty-Five**

The summer of 1917, Branson's fifth summer at Downton Abbey, began quietly, with no major disruptions to the daily routine. He did his job, driving various members of the Crawley family to and from various places, as well as keeping the usual upkeep of his Lordship's cars. But sometime during the first few days of June…all of that changed.

The quiet was disrupted by Mr. Carson calling every member of staff to attention, announcing a decision had been made, and that within the next four to six weeks, preparations would be taken to transform Downton Abbey from grand estate, to a convalescent home for recovering officers.

The reactions of the staff were quite mixed. There were some, like Anna, who felt that this was the right thing to do, that it was their way of contributing to the War Effort. There were others who had very mixed and uneasy feelings about the whole situation, like Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes. And then there were some who were very much against the whole idea, like O'Brien—but for once, she chose to keep her opinions to herself, and merely let her feelings show with a deep scowl.

As for himself, when he heard the news, his first reaction was happy relief. He knew how badly Sybil had been hoping for this. Then, a few minutes later that relief became elation; he would be able to see Sybil at the house, once more! Surely she would be spending a bulk of her shifts at the house, since it was in fact, _her_ home— but the elation soon faded to concern. Would he be able to see her and talk with her? Would she have the time? He had seen how busy she was at the hospital; no doubt she would be just as busy—perhaps busier, here at the house! And then his concern faded to regret. He would miss the moments they shared when he drove her to and from the hospital. He would miss those private conversations, her stories about what had happened during her shift, and being able to speak to her freely and openly as they used to, before the War. Even if there were a break in the midst of her busy schedule, there would be more prying eyes than ever before. In the car, it was just the two of them.

But he quickly silenced those concerns and worries, and forced himself to think positively. Her family would see her in action; they would see what a wonderful nurse she was, and how mature she had become. They would see that she wasn't afraid of hard labor, that she could handle it…

…Perhaps it wouldn't be so shocking then, if she married a working class Irishman?

His rational side mocked him for even thinking that, but he told that part of his brain to more or less, "get stuffed".

Yet Downton wasn't the only place to be affected by dramatic changes. One day after the announcement about the house becoming a convalescent home, Branson received a letter from his sister, Kathleen, telling him that Sean, her husband, had enlisted.

What on earth had possessed the fool?

Now Branson did like his brother-in-law, thought him good, kind, and very sensible. He remembered admiring Sean for his hard work in saving money to buy Kathleen a proper home, even though it meant they had to wait several years to get married. Sean worked at a pub in Dublin, and was hoping that someday the owner, who had no sons but was very fond of Sean, would pass the pub onto him, and that he and Kathleen could make it uniquely their own. Sean also seemed to have this gift for judging the character of people; even before speaking to someone, he knew what tone of voice to use, what gestures to make, what words to say. And because of this, Sean was able to stop any fights from taking place, which was indeed a great gift, now after the Rising.

So why was the idiot enlisting? It made no sense, and went against everything Branson understood about the man.

Kathleen's letter was filled with words describing how brave she thought Sean was, and how proud she was for him to take this stand. "Utter tripe," Branson muttered to himself. He knew his sister, and he could read between the lines that her fancy words were a mask to cover her real emotions of fear and worry.

He wrote back to his sister, demanding to know why Sean was doing this. He was agitated, and for two weeks pestered Carson about the post, asking at every turn if it had arrived, which ultimately led the butler to turn in the opposite direction, when he saw Branson approaching him.

Finally, a letter arrived and Branson wasted no time in opening it.

_Tom—what a strange question! Why shouldn't Sean fight? I know that Ireland is not being "demanded" to send her men to fight as England is (at least, not yet) but…if someone is bullying a stranger, and we pass by and do nothing to stop it, are we not then contributing to that bullying? That is how Sean sees it. So many of his friends have gone to war, including his best friend from childhood. Is it right for him to sit by while they fight, bleed, and…and give their lives? _

Branson had to stop reading for a moment. His sister was making excuses, he could tell. There was something else, something that she was leaving out.

True, his brother-in-law was by no means political. While he knew that Sean supported Irish independence, at the same time he knew that the man was no rebel. But by that same token, he had never heard his brother-in-law say one word in support for the War, let alone say anything about seeing the other side as "bullies". What was his sister getting at?

_By the time you receive this, Sean will be finishing his training, before leaving for France. I will give him your love and pass on your good wishes when I see him, before he leaves. Please keep him in your prayers. Thank you._

The end was rather abrupt, as if she needed to stop writing or else…

He noticed some tear stains at the bottom of the page. He muttered a curse under his breath, and crumpled the note in his fist.

A few days later, he received another letter from home, this time from his mother. He wondered what she thought of all this? He half expected to find her either telling him off for "pestering" Kathleen with his "insensitive" questions…or (as he was hoping) to reveal some light on what was really going on.

He found neither.

What he did find was his mother telling him how his brother Frank had nearly been arrested! Apparently Frank had made some new "friends", and what these so-called "friends" liked to do, was play pranks on British soldiers. According to his mother, they convinced Frank to paint graffiti on a brick wall near a British post (and of course, the words were something demeaning about the English), thus luring the soldiers to chase Frank down a dark, dead-end ally. Just when it looked like they had Frank cornered, his new friends attacked from the rooftop over the ally…by urinating on the soldiers.

The soldiers tried to capture Frank, while at the same time trying to shield their heads, but Frank made it out, laughing the whole way, thinking it all some grand joke.

Branson gritted his teeth; would Frank laugh if he were getting walloped by his big brother? Because if Branson had half the chance, he would smack some sense into his brother's thick skull!

His mother told him not to worry, that she had everything under control—but Branson knew better. His mother still saw Frank as a little boy, a boy whom she could control and who would listen to her after one harsh reprimand. But Frank wasn't a boy anymore, and Branson worried that in the midst of all the chaos Dublin and the rest of Ireland were facing, Frank would follow his new friends into doing something very, very stupid.

_Maybe I should go back?_ His body went rigid at the invading thought. What on earth…?

But the thought didn't go away. It began to grow and he felt a dull ache growing in the pit of his stomach.

Sean would be leaving soon, and Kathleen would be dependent upon their mother again. Frank, who was supposed to be the man of the house, clearly could not be depended upon. And as strong a woman as his mother was, she still had three younger daughters to raise and see through school, and God willing, have a better life than the rest of them. Maybe he _was_ needed back home…?

_No, no, my place is here. I'm doing more good here by keeping steady work and sending them money, than I would be returning to a war-torn land and scavenging for whatever labor I can find. Nothing there will pay as well as what I have here. This is where I should be. _

…Was that true? Or…was he simply making excuses because he didn't want to leave a certain lady?

He didn't want to dwell on that.

In some ways, the preparation for transforming Downton into a convalescent home was a very welcoming distraction from his thoughts and worries about his family and homeland. He was the first amongst the staff to volunteer in helping set things up. It made perfect sense; his duties weren't the same as the others, he could afford the time. Mrs. Hughes politely smiled, while Carson merely gave a grunt. Clearly, the butler's feelings about the matter matched those of O'Brien's. Like a good soldier, he went to "General" Crawley (Mrs. Crawley) to "report for duty" the next day.

"Why are you smiling like that?" Sybil asked, taking notice of his grin as he drove her to the hospital.

His grin only broadened. He wanted her to be nearby, if not present, when he announced his intentions to help.

Indeed, Sybil was surprised when he parked the car and proceeded to follow her inside. "What is it?" she asked, but he simply smiled and folded his hands behind his back.

"Where would I find Mrs. Crawley?" he merely asked, secretly enjoying the curious expression she was giving him.

Sybil's eyes narrowed; she obviously knew he was up to something. "Why?"

"I have a message to deliver."

Sybil wasn't satisfied with this answer. "What message?"

Branson had to bite his lip to keep his grin at bay. "Just a message," he sighed, purposefully avoiding her curious eyes.

"Branson…" her voice was a warning, and he couldn't help it, he had to laugh. Sybil pouted at this, and gave a rather unladylike stomp, just as she used to when she was younger. "Why are you laughing? Are you mocking me about something?" she hissed, and her pout only grew. He continued to smile, but God in heaven, how enticing that lower lip of hers looked…and how he wanted to take it between his own and taste it…

"I wouldn't dream of mocking you," he defended, being sure to take a small step back, so as to avoid the temptation her lip was causing. "But it is important that I speak to her…perhaps you can show me where I would find her?"

Sybil's eyes were two narrow slits, and she gave one more stomp, before turning and muttering something under her breath, and walking at a brisk pace down a hall to his left. He continued grinning as he followed her…trying his hardest to keep his eyes fixed at the back of her head as she led the way…instead of a place that was below her waist.

They found Mrs. Crawley in a storage room, along with Dr. Clarkson. She had a pad of paper with her, and was checking things off, while also making a rather quick and long, verbal list. Sybil apologized for the interruption, but Dr. Clarkson looked relieved.

"Beggin' your pardon," Branson began, taking a step forward, his hands still grasped tightly behind his back. "But I wanted to offer my services; in helping you with whatever you needed in setting things up for the convalescent home."

His announcement obviously surprised Mrs. Crawley, at least momentarily, because the woman was utterly speechless.

"Oh Tom!"

He turned quickly to catch Sybil's gaze, and she immediately lowered her eyes, her cheeks burning red. He could feel his own blush, but he couldn't help but grin, just a little, at the way she had said his name. He had gotten the reaction he had hoped for.

Mrs. Crawley found her voice then, and quickly spoke before an awkward pause could fill the room. "That's very kind of you, Branson. And I welcome the help; heaven knows we'll need it if we want things running before the end of July! But will you be able? I mean, with your duties and all? I wouldn't want you getting into any trouble."

He smiled and nodded his head. "I've already spoken to both Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes. Obviously if I have the time, after I finish my duties, then there is no harm in helping. But in all honesty, I don't think it will be a problem."

"And I'll make sure Papa understands," Sybil quickly added, her eyes locking with his when he turned to face her. She was smiling at him, and he could feel his chest swell with pride. Yes, this was the right thing to do; this was the way to win her heart.

"Well, it's all settled then!" Mrs. Crawley beamed. "Are you heading back to Downton now, Branson? If so, I think I'll join you. I need to do some very careful calculations on how many beds we can set up in each room. Go ahead and start the car, I'll be out shortly."

He nodded his head, and then turned to leave, but no sooner had he left the room, than Sybil was right on his heels, and swatting his arm—rather hard. "Ow!"

"Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded, ignoring his slightly annoyed expression as he rubbed his arm. "Was _that_ why you were smirking earlier?"

"I didn't smirk," he muttered, trying to sound aghast that she would suggest such a thing.

She rolled her eyes at him. "You should have said something!" she lifted her hand to swat him again, but he was prepared this time, and dodged her strike.

"And miss your professional, 'ladylike' reaction? Never!" he laughed as he dodged another swat. "Are all nurses as feisty as you, Nurse Crawley?"

"Oh, I'll show you feisty!" she warned, but before anything could happen, she was stopped short by a somewhat loud bark, by Mrs. Crawley.

"Sybil! I thought surely you would be in the south wing by now; don't you need to report to Nurse Daniels?"

Sybil turned bright red, and murmured an apology under her breath. Branson felt his own face redden at the harsh look Mrs. Crawley was giving them both. He caught Sybil's eyes very briefly, and tried to give her an apologetic look, before she turned and quickly departed to the place where she was supposed to be.

"She's a good nurse," Mrs. Crawley sighed, her eyes like Branson's, watching Sybil's retreating figure. "So long as she isn't distracted…"

He didn't dare look into Mrs. Crawley's eyes; he could feel her gaze burning into him. Mrs. Crawley was certainly much more progressive than the rest of her family, but he wasn't naïve enough to believe that meant she would automatically approve, let alone support, a relationship between a chauffeur and the daughter of his employer.

The days that followed were very…interesting, to say the least.

Mrs. Crawley was a frequent visitor; in fact, Branson found that he saw her much more frequently than any other member of the Crawley family. She would always come in the afternoon, and before entering the house, would stop at the garage to see if he were available. "Good, I'm glad I found you! Can I steal you away for a few minutes?"

Those "few minutes" were in truth, a few hours. He would follow her around the house, and she would be checking things off on her pad, while also verbally making lists of things that would be needed, just as she had done with Dr. Clarkson when Branson had found her at the hospital. "Move that settee over there, will you Branson? Yes, to the north corner of the room, thank you." He did as she asked, and she would take a few measurements, make a few notes, and then ask him to move the piece of furniture back, or move it another part of the room, where she would proceed to take new measurements. In all honesty, he found the whole thing rather tiresome, but he kept his thoughts to himself and merely did as she asked.

He had foolishly assumed that Mrs. Crawley had an understanding with the Countess of Grantham about this entire situation; but the truth of the matter was revealed one afternoon, when her Ladyship caught him moving a chaise.

"BRANSON! What on earth do you think you're doing?"

Her loud and shrill tone startled him so, that he nearly dropped the expensive piece of furniture. "I…" he didn't know what to say! "Your Ladyship, I…forgive me, I…I thought…" he nervously glanced to where Mrs. Crawley had been standing, when she first ordered him to move the chaise, but she was now nowhere to be seen! Of all the ways he imagined possibly losing his position…_this_ was not one of them.

Thankfully, a guardian angel was watching out for him. "I asked Branson to do that, Mama."

Both he and Lady Grantham turned their heads to the doorway, where Sybil stood. His brow furrowed; when did she come home? Wasn't he supposed to pick her up? How did she get there? And why was she saying that _she_ had asked him to move the chaise?

_"You?"_ her Ladyship asked, looking at her daughter as if she had announced she was going to shave her head.

Sybil's eyes met his, and he felt a deep warmth envelope his body at the small, knowing smile she offered. "Yes, I did," she confirmed, turning her eyes back to her mother's. "You see, Cousin Isobel and I are…well, we're checking all the rooms, taking measurements, trying to see what can be or needs to be moved, to make room for all the officers."

"Measurements?" her Ladyship sounded as if she were going to choke. She looked around the room, taking in everything that lay there, before returning her gaze to her daughter. "Where is Cousin Isobel?" she asked, her voice sounding quite strained.

"Her pen ran out of ink," Sybil explained. "She went to fetch a fresh one from the library."

Branson groaned, but managed to keep himself from rolling his eyes. The least Mrs. Crawley could have done was warn him.

His groan did not fall on deaf ears; however her Ladyship mistook it for him struggling with the chaise, which he happened to still be holding. "Branson, just…put that down. And please, refrain from moving anything further until I return."

"Yes, your Ladyship."

She nodded her head, and gave Sybil a look of warning, to which Sybil only responded with a sweet and somewhat apologetic smile. As soon as the sound of her footsteps faded, Sybil rushed over to where he stood, her own arms coming to help him with the chaise, although in truth he didn't need it, but still…it was an opportunity to be close to her.

"I'm so sorry that happened," she murmured, helping him lower the chaise to the floor.

He shrugged his shoulders and gave a crooked smile. "It's alright; thankfully you were here to explain things."

Sybil shook her head, before voicing what he had been thinking earlier. "Yes, well, at least Cousin Isobel could have warned you that she was leaving…" she groaned and began rubbing her temples. "I'm afraid this is only the beginning."

"Beginning?"

"Yes," she sighed. "The beginning of our very own 'Great War', between Mama and Cousin Isobel."

Branson's brow furrowed and he turned his gaze towards the door her Ladyship had exited. "You mean…Mrs. Crawley never…_explained_...what she was going to do?"

"Well…not _everything_," Sybil winced. "She did talk to Mama about what rooms could be used…but she never mentioned anything about moving furniture." She folded her arms and shook her head. "In Cousin Isobel's defense, Mama should have realized that furniture will have to moved, it's simply common sense." Sybil paused, and then began to frown. "However…in Mama's defense, when Cousin Isobel talked about what rooms to use, Mama said she would 'think about it'."

"To which Mrs. Crawley took as a 'yes'," Branson summed up.

"Indeed," Sybil sighed.

Well, he had been looking for distractions; and what could be more distracting than a battle of wills between the Countess of Grantham and the formidable Mrs. Crawley? And if the Dowager Countess got involved…where, there would be no way to think of anything else.

"When did you get here?" he found himself asking. "I mean, I thought I was supposed to—"

"I walked," Sybil explained.

Branson's eyes widened. "Walked?"

Sybil only grinned. "It's not that great of a distance; it only took me thirty minutes. And besides, the weather was so pleasant, I didn't want to miss the opportunity to enjoy it."

It was true, the distance to the hospital wasn't that long, if one chose to walk through the village; the roads Branson took when he drove weren't always the fastest or the most direct, and he was selfish enough to admit (at least to himself) that he did this so he could have more time with Sybil. But she didn't seem to mind.

"But…I thought your shift was until six?"

Sybil shook her head. "Everything seemed to be well under control, and I felt that maybe I was needed here, to help with preparations. And it seems that I was right!"

He found himself grinning back. "Yes, I for one am very glad you returned when you did!" They both shared a laugh, but as it began to fade, his eyes softened as he gazed at her. "You're right, you know."

Sybil was still smiling, but she lifted a brow in question. "About what?"

He kept his gaze locked with hers. "That you are needed…" He stepped around the chaise towards her. "…Here."

A part of him was surprised by his bold words, but in truth, he was proud of himself for making such a statement. It needed to be said. And she needed to know that despite what had happened nearly a year ago…he still wanted her.

Sybil's mouth fell open, her eyes widened, and her skin went pale…before turning a luscious shade of pink. She took a step back, and he was tempted to take another step forward, but was stopped short by the sound of footsteps…and raised voices, between her Ladyship and Mrs. Crawley.

The days that followed that one were busier than before. Sybil recruited other members of staff and Mrs. Crawley gathered as many nurses and medics as the hospital could spare in helping transform the house. Even Lady Edith volunteered. Branson knew this needed to be done, but a part of him wondered if Sybil had other reasons, because after that day when he had made his bold declaration, the two of them hadn't had a moment alone together. And the few times she did need to go to the hospital, she insisted on walking.

God almighty, had he done it again? Had he frightened her off as he had done in November? He thought perhaps things were different now.

But at the same time, he refused to apologize for what he had said, because he truly believed, deep in his soul…that Sybil's feelings weren't so different from his own. He just had to be patient...


	66. Sybil's Diary XVII

_So after the recent release of certain pictures of everyone's favorite lady and chauffeur, the Downton Abbey fanfic bug has bitten, and I hope to produce several chapters this week! I can't stop thinking about this show! And I'm so jealous of all of you out there that get it next month while I must suffer with my fellow Yanks and wait until January :o( ANYWAY here is the next installment, as we prepare to enter the Downton Convalescent Home!_

_ALSO, I want to quickly mention that I have a NEW STORY up, titled **When Did It Happen?** It's a Sybil/Branson romance for those of the "mature audience" persuasion. If you like such stories, please give it a read and let me know what you think! And als always, please leave a comment here, and let me know your thoughts if you are so kind. I truly do appreciate all the lovely words of encouragement, they brighten my day and add spring to my step! Thanks!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Sixty-Six<strong>

July 11, 1917

Two days…

In two days, this mad idea that Cousin Isobel and I have concocted will come into being; Downton Abbey will open as a convalescent home.

Well, I like to think that I had a hand in the idea. I know that in truth, it was originally Cousin Isobel's, but I certainly encouraged her! The two of us were the ones to break it to my family, and we both did everything we could to persuade them—so yes, I do think in some ways, this is as much my idea as hers.

…Not that it truly matters, of course. I suppose my "competitive" nature is coming out due to everything that I've been witnessing over the last few weeks between Cousin Isobel and Mama. I had been hoping that things would be getting better between them, that somehow they would "bond" over this task of transforming Downton…but I couldn't have been more wrong.

It all began when Cousin Isobel had Branson move furniture without Mama's knowledge…or permission, as Mama would see it. Since that point, Mama has been hovering around Cousin Isobel, quick to look over her shoulder at whatever notes Cousin Isobel makes, and immediately begins to protest over the most trivial things, like pushing a settee from one corner of the room to another. I love my mother, dearly, but…really, what was she expecting when she finally agreed to this? Well, clearly I have the answer, and it wasn't…this.

However, to be fair, Cousin Isobel has been a little…pushy. Whenever a maid would pass her, she would immediately order them to stop whatever it was they were doing, and help her with something. She did this with Anna last week, who tried to explain she needed to dust and polish the drawing room before tea, but Cousin Isobel said "this is more important". While I may be more inclined to agree with Cousin Isobel…it isn't fair to put Anna in that position, nor is it right to undermine Mama. Lord knows Mama tries hard enough to assert herself over Granny. But Cousin Isobel is determined to take charge, like a captain running a ship. Now, with only a few days before we "open", so to speak, everyone has put aside their usual, day-to-day jobs, to help with the final preparations.

A bulk of the day was spent setting up cots and beds for the officers. I worked with Dr. Clarkson, as well as Ethel, Anna, and…and Branson.

…

…

Oh Lord, I still…I still can't get over what he said a few weeks ago!

_"You are needed…here."_

Oh God, what does that mean? I…well, I…I know what I _want_ to think that it means, but…but then even he _does_ mean what I _want_ him to mean, I know that I can't accept it!

…

…

He was looking at me today, while we worked. I could _feel_ his gaze…

It was…rather…intense…

…

It took every ounce of willpower that I possessed to not lift my eyes to look back. Even though, God help me, I wanted to…

…

…

Something's changed. Again. I don't know how to describe it, but…everything feels different. And…and it scares me, a little.

…Maybe it's my imagination. Now that I've admitted my feelings, maybe I'm just looking for reasons and excuses to carry on thinking and feeling this way…even though I know nothing can come of it. But…when he says things to me, like he did that day…and when he looks at me, as he did today…I…I don't know what to think. My heart does somersaults and my breathing quickens, and I feel this…this strange, tingly ache, wash over my entire body…

God help me, I want to give in to it. I want to abandon sense and reason and throw every caution to the wind. I want to delve into all of those secret, private thoughts that come to me, late at night. I want to believe that…that he and I…

…

…

But why bother? Why put myself through that pain? Why put _the both of us_ through that pain?

…Perhaps I am more of a realist than an idealist.

…

I'm ashamed to say, that ever since that day when he said those words, I have been avoiding him. When Cousin Isobel arrived this morning to oversee the changes, she asked for several volunteers from the staff to help myself and Dr. Clarkson with set-up. I wasn't surprised when I heard his voice ring out above any other, and I quickly found myself taking a sudden interest in my shoes.

Lord, how childish I'm being! I can't avoid him like this forever! And it will only get worse if I do…

Oh God almighty, give me strength.

I suppose in some ways, Granny was a welcome distraction. She came by just before luncheon, and naturally felt the need to poke her head in and offer her opinion. I had just asked, in general, why we were only going to take in officers; after all, a "common private" needs just as much rest and rehabilitation as a recovering colonial. Dr. Clarkson attempted to explain it to me, but if truth be told, he didn't really say much of anything, other than the fact that the house was complementary for officers, who came to the hospital. Basically, he just repeated what I already knew. Cousin Isobel did agree with my opinion, but said nothing could be done, everything was already settled. And that was when Granny decided to share her opinion with all of us.

In Granny's eyes, ranks cannot mix together, because it will only cause further stress for the men who are not officers. In the words of my Grandmother Levinson—poppycock! I actually attempted to challenge her on this, following her out into the hall and arguing that people of different ranks _can_ work and relax together—yet she more or less dismissed my argument, by "doing what she does best", which is telling me without saying the exact words, that I "misunderstood" her. Carson was standing nearby, and she made some mention that she has no problem with mixing with others; that both she and Carson always take the first dance at the Servant's Ball.

What on earth does that have to do with anything? I don't know—but clearly, for Granny, it was both an explanation _and_ the final word on the matter.

Now I understand how poor Edith feels.

Edith surprised us all, I think, by stepping forward and volunteering to help. She wasn't asked, I don't even think anyone even expected her to make the offer. But offered, she did, and I'm very glad for it.

…Although, she's not used to physical labor. One afternoon, Cousin Isobel asked her to help with carrying a few chairs from one of the rooms to another, but by the fourth trip, she was utterly exhausted. So now she more or less helps Cousin Isobel "supervise", yet in truth, what that really means is standing behind Cousin Isobel, and keeping Mama calm. Edith has tried to offer some helpful suggestions; earlier today, Anna asked if the beds should be spaced out more, and Edith attempted to provide an answer, but Cousin Isobel spoke right over her. Mama then asked a question, and Edith immediately recognized the need to be the "voice of compromise and reason", yet once again, Cousin Isobel spoke over her, and then told her not to loiter and make herself useful because there's plenty to be done.

Poor Edith. It's amazing, really. Why, it wasn't so long ago that she was spending her days down at the Drake's farm, helping drive the tractor for the spring and summer harvests. I still remember that night when she came into my room, her face glowing and her smile beaming from ear to ear. She looked so happy then. But, without warning it seemed, her time at the Drake's ended. And ever since, she's been moping around the house, wandering from room to room, as if she's looking for something.

Lord, I can relate to that. That was _exactly_ how I felt before I became a nurse.

We had a moment, Edith and I, while I was making some beds. We haven't really had much of an opportunity to talk; I've been so busy with my shifts at the hospital and in getting things ready here. But we did have a short opportunity this afternoon.

She told me that she envies me, which I must admit, surprised me. I didn't have to ask what she meant; I looked at her and knew immediately. She told me that she feels like a spare part, a spare part that has no purpose. While working at the Drake's, she felt a purpose, she _had_ a purpose, and she did agree with me when I mentioned how being there seemed to suit her.

Although there was something else, too. Something that I couldn't quite put my finger on, but I did realize there was something she wasn't telling me…but I didn't push; I could tell that the subject for some reason was making her uncomfortable.

I tried to be encouraging. I told her that she has a talent that none of the rest of us have—she just needs to discover what it is and use it. "Doing nothing, that's the enemy", I said.

I don't know if my words were helpful or not. She smiled at me, although it was a small smile, a humoring smile. I…I often think people overlook Edith; Mama, Papa, Granny…and…even myself, at times. I should make more time for my sister; I should try to talk to her more about these things, because I think Edith and I share a common bond, a feeling that…that there is more to be done…and that there _is_ more to this life than what we've grown up with, at Downton Abbey.

…

…

…More to this life.

I find myself thinking about that, every so often...

Oh alright, _very_ often.

I find myself wondering…what if…? What if I _had_ said "yes", when he revealed his feelings to me and _"promised to devote every waking minute to my happiness"?_ I never really thought of myself as a romantic…but…I find myself replaying those words, over and over…and every time I do, I feel the breath rushing out of my lungs, causing me to gasp and hold tightly to something as I resume my normal breathing.

Do I dare hope?

…

A month had practically gone by before I finally received Gwen's response to my "revelation". I was such a coward, and actually locked that silly letter in the cupboard of my room just as I had done with Branson's apology all those years ago. Thankfully, I didn't wait as long as I foolishly had with that letter. I forced myself to read it that night before going to bed. I also "conveniently" read it after writing in my diary, as if by doing so would keep me from writing about it and focusing on its contents. I suppose the reason I was so scared to…to see what she had written, was because now that I had received a reply, I realized that yes, I _had_ told _someone else_ about my feelings for Branson. And while I knew then as I know now that I can trust Gwen with this secret…I was more afraid of what she would think of me, for feeling as I do.

Well, she didn't call me an idiot. She didn't tell me I was horrible for thinking such things. She didn't reprimand me at all.

But she was worried for me. Worried about…about what could happen. And I don't think when she wrote that, she meant she was worried about "my reputation as the daughter of the Earl of Grantham"…but rather…worried about what would happen to my heart; to _our hearts_, actually. Which is the same worry I have—and which is why I keep telling myself, over and over, to…to NOT keep going on as I am! To force myself to stop thinking and feeling this way! To…to avoid him as much as possible.

…

…But that hurts even more.

Every day, I walk to the hospital instead of asking him to drive me. And every day, while we've been working at the house, I try my hardest to work with anyone _but_ him.

But I can't get away. Even when he's not in the same room as me, I can _still_ feel his gaze…and I still find myself wondering about his face…his eyes…his arms…his mouth—

…

…

I need to take that advice I offered to Edith. _"Doing nothing, that is the enemy". _

…Yet, no matter how busy I make myself…I _still_ think about him.

Perhaps when the convalescent home opens, and all the officers arrive, perhaps then I will be so swamped and distracted with work that there won't be any time for my thoughts to wander to him? Perhaps I'll be so overwhelmed, that when I do go to bed, I'll be too exhausted to dream about him…

Perhaps…

Do I dare hope? For _that?_

…

…

…I don't trust myself to answer that.


	67. Branson's Journal VII

_WHOO HOO! Fast updates! As I mentioned in my previous chapter, the Downton bug has bitten, and I have been inspired to write, write, write! We'll see how many updates I can push out this week, but so far, here's update #2! I think I just want to get to "that scene" and tackle it head on._

_Anyway, this chapter was a little..."emotional", to write. But hopefully it sets up the tone for certain future conversations that we all know will be taking place. THANK YOU for reading, and thank you, as always, for taking the time to leave a comment. I appreciate it so much!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Sixty-Seven<strong>

July 11, 1917

It's finally happened.

My "summons" from the British Government has arrived and I have been called up to war. Regardless of the fact that I'm Irish and conscription has yet to be made mandatory in Ireland, here I am…looking at a blue envelope, written in clear lettering, "Mr. T. Branson of Downton Abbey". I suppose Martin was right—by staying here, they would find a way to get us in the end.

…I have to say, I was starting to wonder.

I mean, it's 1917, an entire year and a half since conscription came into being…and here I am, a man fit in his prime; a man of working class background, with no young children and no…and no wife to look after, no "major responsibilities", as the government would see it. The perfect soldier; someone that they can send off to No Man's Land, without the guilt of leaving yet another portion of the next generation, fatherless.

Well…all good things come to those who wait, right?

Could my sarcasm be any more obvious?

…

Well, can't say I wasn't prepared. Even before Parliament announced their Act of Conscription, I was making plans on what to do "should my number be called up".

Of course, that was just talk then. Now, I'll have to put that talk into practice.

…

…

Am I ready for prison?

I know my reasons, and cowardice isn't one of them. Yet, I know that's not how others will see it…

…

Oh why do I even care what they think? I never have before!

…

I do worry for my family, though; for Mother, and all my siblings. Will they be shamed because of my actions? Will they see me as a coward, for not "accepting" the call? After all, according to Kathleen, Sean enlisted because he wanted to "do what is right". Maybe in her eyes I am a coward, while her husband went bravely to the front…only to return a month later, with eight fingers instead of ten.

I got the telegram this afternoon, not long after I forced myself to open my summons. Thank God it wasn't anything more serious, but…I can only imagine my sister's hysteria at the news that Sean had been injured, to the point of missing two fingers.

Poor Mother; having to stand firm and strong in all this, providing strength and support for her worried-crazed daughter, raising three younger girls, and having a son whom she can't depend upon because he's too busy being STUPID with these delinquents he calls "friends".

…

…Maybe I _should_ have gone back? Maybe then, they couldn't have sent me this stupid piece of paper, telling me to report to the medical examiner before heading to Richmond?

…

Idiot. What was I hoping to accomplish?

I can sit here and argue over and over that I stayed behind for "practical" reasons, because I had a good job and was making good money, more money than I could possibly make back in Ireland, and that I was doing it all for the good of my family…but I know and the Almighty knows that none of that is true. I chose to stay because…because of a girl.

No…not a girl; a woman.

An inspiring, brave, brilliant, remarkable, beautiful woman…who wants nothing to do with me.

God, I can't believe I let this happen…_AGAIN!_ I let myself get my hopes up, I actually…I actually believed, deep down, that she felt the same way! And what was it that I thought? Just give her time, just be patient with her, she'll come around, she'll realize that she shares the same feelings, that she…that she loves you…

Stupid. Stupid, romantic, idiot.

Nothing has changed.

Friends, that's all she wants to be. And…and I was satisfied with that! I had convinced myself for…for half a year that I was fine with _just_ being friends! But then I botched it, misinterpreting her words about "never going back to her old life, before the war" as a sign that she was ready to declare her love for a working class fool, like me.

How could I have been so blind? Once again, Martin has the last laugh; no doubt he's looking down at me, shaking his head and muttering the same words I was using before; idiot.

I frightened her, _again_; I overstepped my boundaries, and she retreated, staying as far away from me as possible. These last few weeks in setting up for the convalescent home, she's been avoiding me as much as possible. She'll work with anyone _but_ me; God, she won't _even_ look at me!

I should just hand in my notice. Right now. Tomorrow, I should just pack my bags and go. Not even bother to say goodbye to anyone, just leave without a backwards glance.

And as for this blasted summons? Go on, let the government send their soldiers after me, I'd like to see them try! Lord knows I wouldn't be the first deserter!

…

…

Of course, that's all my mother needs right now; another son to be disappointed in. One son dangerously close to being thrown in jail, while the other one resides there; brilliant, just bloody brilliant.

No, that's not the answer. If I do that, if I just run away, then they've won entirely. Martin's senseless death and Sean's injury will seem even more pointless, and British tyranny will just continuing stretching until every Irish lad between the ages of 16 and 45 find themselves being shipped off to the Continent to die or lose body parts for some meaningless war, that's being waged by a bunch of old, wealthy Englishmen, who like playing toy soldiers with actual human beings! GOOD GOD, WHERE'S THE JUSTICE IN THAT?

…

…

No…running away is not the answer.

…I'm more determined now, than I was when I started writing this entry.

Every fire starts with a spark; my little rebellious act may not seem like much when it happens, but God willing, it will ignite a protest that will spread near and far, turning what seems like a brief humiliation into a full-fledged revolution!

At least that's my hope.

…That should be my _only_ hope. _That_ should be where I put my heart…

…

…

I shouldn't worry about what she'll think. After all…she's _the enemy_, isn't she? A member of the British aristocracy, the very institution that uses and abuses good, hardworking people, both within their own country and in other lands! She can say that she won't "go back to that life" all she wants, but we both know that's not true; when the War ends, she'll be done "playing nurse", and travel back to London for yet another season, meet some wealthy baron or something, and marry him, carrying on the grand tradition that is Downton Abbey…

…

She'll forget all about me.

…

I'm just another servant, and that's all I'll ever be! I'm nothing to her, nothing at all. They could drag me away in chains tomorrow for wanting to do what I'm planning to do, and I bet she _still_ wouldn't look at me!

…

…

God, I'm a blubbering mess. Damn it! Stupid is ink is running…

…

…

…

Life would be so much easier if I could think like that, meaning…if I _could_ think of her as "the enemy". But I'd be lying if I did.

…

…I'm lying to myself right now, saying that I don't care what she thinks.

But I can't afford to think like that anymore.

…

Right, so it's settled. I'll go to Mr. Carson, first thing tomorrow morning, and tell him about my summons. I'll finish the last of my duties here over the next few days, and…and just make myself ready.

…

…

What else can I say? It's as good as done.


	68. Confrontations: part one

****_Update #3 for the week! This was another emotionally charged chapter to write, but episode 3 of series 2 is a very emotional episode! Here, Sybil confronts Branson when she learns he's been called up; I always imagined how she reacted when she first learned that he had received the news, before she confronted him. I also wondered if anything happened after that confrontation. Did it really just end there, with him walking away? This chapter is my attempt to answer those questions.  
><em>

_I hope people are enjoying these! I know I've been writing and updating in quick succession (even for me!) so I apologize if it seems like "too much", but I can't help it, I have been so inspired as of late, and I want to tackle these chapters! So I hope you are enjoying, and please let me know your thoughts if you are able. Thank you!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Sixty-Eight<strong>

She had slept in a little later than she had intended. She had no shift at the hospital today; it was to be a "pure work day" at the house, adding the final touches before the officers were to arrive the next. Cousin Isobel had told her she would be there at nine sharp, so Sybil had planned to be up and ready well before then. However, she had the most fitful night's sleep, perhaps the worst in…months? Years? Who knew anymore. Yes, she had dreamed of Branson, but this dream was different.

Normally, her dreams involving Branson were sweet and mild, or…rather passionate. And lately, a majority of her dreams had been the latter. But last night, her dream had taken a very different path…a very _disturbing_ path.

In her dream, she had come to the garage, excited to see him, eager to feel his arms and taste his kiss. But when she arrived, she had to bite back a scream at the horrid scene displayed before her.

Everything…the cars, the work table, even the bench where she had sat so many times throughout the years…everything was drenched in blood. She opened her mouth to cry his name, but no sound would come out of it. She began to frantically search throughout the garage, and then bang on the doors and windows of his cottage, trying to find him, wondering where he had gone. She kept trying to scream, but still, no sound could be heard.

And then…just behind the cottage, near an old tree that she used to climb when she was a little girl…was a grave marker.

She sank to her knees. The marker was no bigger than her shoe…and yet, two tiny letters were carved upon its surface…

_T.B._

She awoke then with a start, her body gasping for air as if she had been held under water. Her skin was covered in a thin sheen of perspiration, and her body was trembling from head to toe. But unlike her previous dreams, this wasn't a pleasant shiver, and her body felt far from warm.

She got up and paced around the room, but the awful images of the grave marker and the bloody garage kept coming back.

"I need to read something; surely that will take my mind off things," she whispered to herself. She looked at her bookshelf, but nothing looked very appealing. She was in no mood to read North and South. Jane Eyre perhaps? No; there was that part where Mr. Mason was attacked, and right now, she didn't want to read anything that contained blood and violence. From that perspective, Jane Austen was always a safe bet, but attempting to sit and enjoy an Austen novel right now would be like throwing a person with a raging fever into a vat of ice water; the contrasts were just too different. Did she even want to read a novel? Her eyes glossed over the books that dealt with English history, as well as flit across the room to the locked drawer, where she kept any books that had to do with politics. But reading anything that was related to history or politics would automatically cause her to think of him. And…she wanted her mind to go as far from him as it could.

In the end, she didn't end up reading anything. Instead, she opened her window and looked out at the night sky; it was a little humid and foggy, and you could definitely smell the rain in the atmosphere. She took a great gulp of the night air, hoping it would help clear her head…but her brow crinkled slightly, when she thought she saw _something_…down below, near the willow tree.

A deer, perhaps? They had been known to sometimes wander onto the grounds at night. It was too foggy to tell.

Eventually exhaustion got the better of her, and she did go back to bed. Yet while that dream never returned, she was never able to fully relax, and kept waking every so often at the slightest noise. At half-past eight, she forced herself to get up, and groggily looked across the room at her reflection. Lord, she was a ghastly sight! She didn't bother trying to put her hair up in a decent bun, she more or less lumped it as best she could under her headscarf, threw on her uniform, splashed some cold water onto her face, and went to the breakfast room.

Her father was the only other person up, thank heaven. Sybil didn't think she could deal with her mother or sisters at the moment. "Good morning, Papa," she murmured as she went to help herself to some eggs at the side board.

"Good morning," he replied, giving her a brief smile, before returning his attentions to his newspaper. She gazed at the paper for a moment, remembering how she used to "steal" them to her room when her father was finished, looking for any news about the women's suffrage movement. The memory brought a smile to her face—then faded slightly, as she also remembered stealing newspapers for Branson, to help her find job listings for Gwen.

_Things were so much simpler then_, she found herself thinking.

But another voice, one that seemed to be connected to her heart, decided to add its own opinion. _You say that, but are you sure that was true? Is it possible that even as far back as then…you fancied him and saw him as more than a chauffeur? Or more than a friend?_

"Shut up," Sybil muttered under her breath.

"Hmmm?" her father asked, lifting his head and turning towards her.

Her face blushed deeply, and she resumed piling her plate with food from the sideboard. "Nothing, Papa, I…I was just…making a mental note…out loud." Lord, how stupid did that sound? Yet it seemed to satisfy her father, for he simply shrugged his shoulders and returned to whatever he had been reading.

Carson entered the room then, carrying a tray that contained another warming dish. "Ah, good morning, Lady Sybil."

She smiled at the butler and murmured a good morning back. Carson set the dish on the sideboard, and then turned towards her father, his hands clasped behind his back and his face transforming from the pleasant smile he had offered when he first entered the room, to one of grim foreboding. "I'm afraid I have bad news, milord."

Sybil's brow furrowed, but she remained at the sideboard, her back to the two men.

"Oh?" She heard the rustling of the newspaper, and imagined her father reluctantly putting it down. "What sort of news?"

"Well, another lad received his summons, in yesterday's post."

_Oh no._ Sybil bit her lip as she imagined the servant Carson was informing her father about. It couldn't be a footman, obviously, but there were plenty of kitchen lads and groundskeepers. She wondered how old the boy was, who received this summons? Just barely of legal age? Many of the kitchen lads were between the ages of fifteen and twenty. Was he afraid? She wouldn't blame him if he was—she wouldn't blame the strongest of men for feeling that fear, after all the horror she had seen at the hospital.

"Oh dear," her father sighed. "Well, I suppose it shouldn't be too surprising. Naturally I understand, and will wish him the very best."

"As I thought you would say, milord. I said the same thing when he informed me."

Her father made a sound of agreement, before taking a sip of his tea and asking, "Who is it by the way? Can we get by without him? Or do we need to put an advertisement in the paper?"

Carson sighed, with a note of frustration. "The latter, milord." He was then quick to mutter, "Although, in my frank opinion, we should have done so after Thomas left and before we literally became 'footman-less'."

Sybil had to bite her lip to keep from grinning. She imagined the look her father was giving the old butler, but she knew he wouldn't push an argument. "Thank you, Carson," he muttered in return. "Now, who is it that we will be losing and needing to replace?"

"Branson, milord; the chauffeur."

Any further conversation that was to be exchanged between Carson and her father was interrupted by the loud clanging sound of Sybil's plate, hitting the sideboard.

"Good God, Sybil!" her father gasped, rising from his chair, startled by the sound.

Carson quickly moved to the side board. "Are you alright, milady?" he asked, looking at the plate and giving a small sigh of relief; it wasn't broken. Yet the eggs she had been gathering were now strewn across the sideboard and carpet, making it a grand mess.

She couldn't speak. She could barely move. She was in absolute, utter shock.

Branson had been called up. Branson had received his summons. Branson was going to war!

"Sybil?" her father was now looking at her with concern, and had moved to where she stood, gently touching her shoulder. "Sybil, are you alright? Did you burn yourself on the warming dish?"

She looked up at her father, but she couldn't say anything. She was completely mute, as she had been in her nightmare. But her eyes were wide, and her hands were trembling…

Carson pursed his lips, surveying the mess. "I'll have one of the maids come and clean this up."

"Yes, thank you Carson," her father answered, his eyes still focused on Sybil. "Sybil, say something—you look as if you've seen a ghost!"

She flinched at her father's choice of words. Images of a grave marker began to fill her head.

"Sybil? Sybil, please, I—"

"I must go," she whispered, interrupting her father and turning on her heel, ignoring his questions as she left the room, not bothering to look back.

She passed others on the way; Anna, Mrs. Hughes, Ethel, who was standing beside Carson holding a broom and dust pan—her mother, who was coming down the stairs, followed by Edith, who may have called out her name…but she ignored them all, even Cousin Isobel who walked right up to her.

"Ah, Sybil! Here, I brought some extra blankets from the hospital to put in our storage cupboard—"

Wordlessly, Sybil took the blankets, but didn't bother to stop or look at her cousin or turn her head to anyone who may have been calling after her…she simply continued walking, at a brisk pace, to the only destination that mattered.

_It happened. It's actually happened._ The day she had been dreading ever since Parliament passed the law—no, before then; the day she had been dreading ever since the War began. Branson was leaving…and he may never come back. Oh God…what if her dream had been an omen of some kind? No, no, she didn't believe in such superstitious nonsense!

She staggered slightly, and found herself gripping a railing to keep her balance. Her head was spinning and she was having trouble breathing.

_Calm down, calm down, you're having a panic attack_, the logical nurse inside her head told herself. She leaned her head forward and set it against the cool surface of a doorway. Where was she? It was the first time she realized her surroundings; she was gripping a small stair railing, just outside one of the house's service entrances, and she was leaning her head against its doorframe. Despite the fact that it was July, the air was surprisingly cool. She took several deep breaths, just as she had done the night before, and tried to get her thoughts in order.

"It's alright…it's going to be alright," she whispered to herself. "He's clever, he won't do anything brave or stupid. He knows he has so many depending upon him back in Ireland, he won't do anything to risk their well-being."

But with every encouraging word that she tried to offer, the doubts and fears that she had been trying to suppress for so many years, kept rising up and presenting the worse-case scenario.

He may not go seeking for opportunities to prove his courage, but to say Branson wasn't brave was a lie. He wouldn't leave a man to die in the mud; if a fellow soldier were struck down and screaming for help in the middle of No Man's Land, he wouldn't even pause to question whether he should go to him or not…he simply, _would_. That was the sort of man Tom Branson was, and the British Army would be so lucky to have such a man fighting for them; he would be an instant hero.

…But God help her, she didn't want him to go and be such a hero! She wanted him to stay there, at Downton, safe and sound and _far away_ from all those atrocities! She wanted—

_ "…Another lad received his summons, in yesterday's post."_

Sybil thoughts paused as she replayed Carson's words.

_…Yesterday's post…_

He had received this news…_yesterday?_

Good God, why…why didn't he…why hadn't he said anything to her?

All day yesterday, while they were setting up beds and he was following her from room to room and…and…and LOOKING at her that whole time! Had he known then? Why didn't he say anything to her? Why didn't he just…just grab her arm and pull her aside and tell her, then and there? He should have! He knew how long she had been worried about this happening; for heaven's sake, didn't he remember how she had nearly fallen apart so many Christmas' ago, when she thought he had enlisted? That was perhaps the only other time she had had a panic attack. He KNEW how she felt about this! He knew, he…

Oh Lord; had he been planning on telling her…_at all?_

The fear and worry she had been feeling was suddenly replaced with raw anger.

He had no intention of telling her, ever; she knew it, deep down, she knew it to be true. How could he? How could he…how could he do that to her? After everything they had been through! Scheming to help Gwen find her dream job, the letters they had written while she had been London, the books, pamphlets, and long conversations they had exchanged about politics throughout the years, the rallies they had attended, including the one in Ripon where he had nearly lost his job!

…The "dance" they had shared, that one snowy Christmastide.

…The day he told her he wanted to marry her…

Didn't their friendship mean anything to him?

…Didn't…didn't _she_, mean anything to him anymore?

Tears threatened to fall; she could feel them burning her eyes. She clutched the blankets that Cousin Isobel had handed to her, seeking something—anything, for comfort.

She didn't know which was worse; the pain at the thought of losing him to the War…or the pain at the realization that…that she meant nothing to him, at least not anymore.

Oh God above, she wanted to scream! She wanted to scream and cry and kick and punch! She wanted to shout at him for keeping this secret from her, for never intending to let her know. She wanted to take her fist and punch him in the face, break his jaw or his nose…and then, God help her, she would lose herself to her tears, before taking his face in her hands and weeping over his bruises, kissing the exact places where she had punched.

Perhaps she should turn away now. Perhaps it would be best if she didn't seek him out, if she turned on her heel, take those blankets to the storage cupboard, and proceed with her duties. He had no intention of telling her, so maybe she shouldn't bother with approaching him about the subject. Let him wonder if she had heard…if he wondered about such things, anymore.

Her stubborn pride had nearly won her over in that moment. She was prepared to turn and walk back into the house, but was stopped short by the sound of water splashing. She turned around and looked across the gravel drive…and saw him, there…washing her father's Renault.

Like a moth to a flame, she was drawn. And like the water that washed away the dirt and dust from the Renault, so too were her violent thoughts and angry emotions washed away.

"Carson's told Papa you've been called up."

She didn't know what she had been expecting. Remorse? She had been hoping he would look ashamed when the realization dawned on him that she had to hear his news through a third party, and that he would explain that it had all been one big mistake.

She certainly hadn't been expecting the response she received.

"There's no need to look so serious."

He didn't even pause with his chore. He simply continued washing the car and acting as if…as if they were talking about the weather.

Sybil was miffed by this. "You'd think me rather heartless if I didn't."

That seemed to do the trick. He did take a moment's pause in his chore. He looked her straight in the eyes, and simply said, "I'm not going to fight." Was it her imagination? Or was there a slight bit of annoyance to his tone? As if…he expected her to know better.

She was confused. "You'll have to…"

"I will not," he argued, going around the car to continue washing it. There was a bite to his tone. Without even looking up from his chore, he explained, "I'm going to be a conscientious objector."

Sybil nearly dropped the blankets she had been holding. She had heard stories of men who refused to fight, for one reason or another. Some claimed it was against their religious upbringing, while others argued Britain had no business being a part of this war, and were making their feelings known by dismissing their call to arms. No matter what the reason, all of these men faced the same consequence.

"They'll put you in prison!"

If her words were meant to shock him, they had the opposite effect. He looked up at her, a rather annoyed expression on his face. "I'd rather prison than the Dardanelles," he muttered, referring to the Ottoman strait.

She gazed at him from the other side of the car, not knowing how to digest this news. All she could think to say was, "When will you tell them?"

He continued washing, and didn't even bother to look her in the eye. "In my own good time," he answered.

She was trying to keep an even temper, but he was making it extremely difficult. And it didn't help that he was being rude, refusing to look at her while she asked him these questions.

"I don't understand…"

He paused again, and looked into her eyes once more. She felt her breath catch at the spark she saw in their blue-green depths. "I'll go to the medical, I'll report for duty…" he explained, walking around the car as he spoke. "And when I'm on parade, I'll march out front and I'll shout it loud and clear." He had come around the car and was standing only a few feet away from her. She had noticed that with every step and every word, the light in his eyes became even brighter, and a smile began to form at his mouth…and she could hear actual _pride_ in his voice! Pride for this plan of his!

And it terrified her…

"…And if that doesn't make the newspapers, then I'm a monkey's uncle!"

She didn't find his joke funny, not at all. But she doubted he had said to be funny. Good God, did he have any idea what he was…what he was getting himself into, if he did this?

"But…you'll have a record for the rest of your life!" Didn't he realize that? Didn't he see what would happen? He couldn't be a chauffeur; he wouldn't be allowed to work at Downton—Lord, he probably wouldn't be allowed to work for _any_ family! The "shame" of having such a person under one's roof. Indeed, finding work of any kind would be down-right difficult, if not impossible.

He was about to continue his chore, but paused once more. And this time, when he looked at her, Sybil felt as if he could see right through her.

"At least I'll have a life."

His words weren't loud, but they were very direct, and Sybil couldn't help but flinch slightly at them. She also couldn't help but wonder…if there was a deeper meaning behind them.

He seemed to have given up on the task of washing the car, and threw his rag into the bucket before proceeding to pick it up. She stood there, frozen in her place, still holding those stupid blankets, as he began to walk away. Who knows how long she would have stood there, staring stupidly at his retreating back; it wasn't until he glanced over his shoulder at her in mid stride, that she let go of the blankets and could feel the muscles moving in her legs…taking her to him.

"Branson!"

He ignored her. He kept walking, although his pace had picked up.

"Branson!"

He still continued walking, not bothering to look back at her. Where was he going? To the garage to get his tools? To the pump to get more water? She was all but running in an effort to keep up.

"Tom!"

That did the trick. He stopped walking and without warning, whirled around to face her. "What?" he all but shouted, his voice clearly filled with annoyance.

His stop had been so abrupt, Sybil practically crashed into him. Her hands instinctively went out to brace herself…and she felt her cheeks burn as she looked up at him, her hands flat against his chest, and her face only a few inches away from his. She could feel the muscles beneath her fingers; it was better than anything she had ever dreamed. Her throat went dry as she lifted her eyes to his, and she swore time stopped as his eyes, which had looked so intense and angry earlier were now filled with shock and surprise as they gazed back into her own…before glancing down at her parted lips.

"Tom…"

The spell was quickly broken. Branson rolled his eyes to the sky and muttered something in what she could only conclude was Gaelic, before gripping her shoulders, rather harshly, and pushing her away from him. "What do you want?" he all but snarled. "You ignore me for weeks, refusing to even look at me, but _NOW_ you want my attention?"

His words hurt; far more than the tone in which he spoke them in or the fingers that painfully dug into the flesh at her shoulders.

"Well, forgive me, _milady_, for not being attentive enough when you wished it. Tell me, how can I possibly _serve_ you?"

Pure sarcasm. Pure, mean-spirited sarcasm. When he had first spoken to her, she did feel a stab of shame for the way she had been, for her cowardly behavior in avoiding him at all costs. But now…now she felt that anger bubble up inside her, threatening to explode like a firecracker.

"You can start by losing the attitude!" she snapped, shaking her shoulders free from his grip, her eyes narrowed and her hands balling into fists. _Careful_, she thought. _Or you _will_ punch him!_ The thought made the left corner of her mouth lift slightly. _Perhaps _he's_ the one who needs to be careful._

Her words did seem to have a small effect on him, however. He straightened his back, and stuffed his hands into his pockets, but the cold, angry expression he wore didn't go away. "Go on then," he muttered. "Clearly you have something you wish to say…"

Oh, how observant of him! But shouting back and returning one snarky comment with another would get them nowhere. "I know you've never supported the War…" he rolled his eyes at her comment, but she chose to ignore it and carry on. "But think about what you're saying! Think about the consequences—"

"I have thought about them!" he interrupted, his eyes blazing.

Sybil felt her own stubbornness kick in. "Have you?" she countered, her hands going to her hips. "What about your family? You've talked about how much they depend on you."

He grumbled something incoherent under his breath, before turning away. But Sybil wasn't going to have any of it. She moved around to his other side, forcing him to look at her.

"You do this, you go to prison, you get that black mark put on you…you'll never be able to work again!"

A scoffing bark of laughter left his throat. "Forgive me, milady…but not every job revolves around some posh estate like Downton Abbey."

Sybil flinched at his words, as if he had struck her. "I…I know that…" she mumbled, her eyes falling to the ground, trying her best to not show how his words had affected her. She briefly glanced up at his face, and the fire that had been burning in his eyes just a few moments ago seemed to soften, slightly.

He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped…as if he too were a sudden mute. Instead, he took a step back, lowered his own gaze to the ground just as she had done. "I'm very much aware that this will not make things easy for me, in the future. You're probably right, I probably will never be able to work again as a chauffeur, or have any such position in a place like this…" he lifted his eyes then, and caught her gaze once more. "But is that such a bad thing?"

Sybil's mouth fell open. She didn't know what to say to that. The embers of that fire seemed to be kindling once again in his eyes, but there was something else too. Something that looked…pained.

"Maybe it's time for me to move on," he muttered under his breath, taking another step away from her.

Those words caused Sybil to flinch even more, and she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to keep warm despite the sudden chill that filled the air around them. "Do you…do you mean that?" her voice was barely a whisper.

His eyes were still downcast. "I don't know…" he answered honestly. "But…I did say I wouldn't always be a chauffeur; maybe this is my opportunity to prove that."

Sybil was biting her lip, and rather hard. She could taste blood at the back of her throat. "Alright, I understand that," she responded, emotion beginning to get the best of her. "But is…is _this_ really the best way to do that? Throwing your life away—"

"As opposed to going and fighting for something I don't believe in? For something that I'm against? _That_ isn't throwing my life away?" he countered, the anger rising in his voice once again.

"No! I didn't mean that, I…" she felt her voice catch and she inwardly cursed herself for the tears that betrayed her eyes and began to trickle down her face. "I'm just saying…" what was she saying? She didn't want him to fight, either; she didn't want him to risk his life. But at the same time, she didn't want him to do what he was proposing to do; be arrested and thrown into prison. While he was probably right, that he would be able to find some kind of work when the War was over, such a mark would make things difficult. And didn't he have dreams of working in politics? Wouldn't this ruin those dreams? "…There has to be another way," she softly murmured, more to herself than to him.

But he did hear her words, and his mouth was set into a grim line. "Well, let me know if you find one," he grumbled, before picking up his fallen bucket and resuming his walk from before.

She didn't follow him this time. She remained where she was, her body feeling cold and numb.

This wasn't their first argument, yet it stung more than any other she could recall. While his words, spoken in anger and frustration, had indeed hurt—what truly hurt was his…his _detachment_. Not only was he convinced that what he was planning on doing was right, but that he almost seemed to find…some strange sort of…_joy_ in it.

He was resolved; consequences be damned. No wonder he had spoken so harshly to her.

_There's something more to this_, she found herself thinking. _Something he's not telling me…_

She sighed and turned back towards the house, stopping along the way to pick up her discarded blankets. What could a person do, in such a situation? He didn't want to fight, and she understood that; she even respected his reasons. But if he didn't, then he would have to suffer for those beliefs in another way. Was it right? She had never truly given the matter much thought, but Sybil found herself frowning at what seemed like obvious injustice. But what about all the good men, like Matthew, like the soldiers whom she tended nearly every day at the hospital? They had given so much of themselves, and had made so many sacrifices; no doubt they would find injustice if these objectors weren't punished in some way.

This was not a black and white argument, Sybil could see that.

In Branson's mind, there was only one solution, and he was resigned to its consequences. He was prepared to face them, or at least that was what he was telling her.

_But there _has_ to be another way!_ She just needed to do what Branson had said; _find it._


	69. Branson's Journal VIII

****_THANKS SO MUCH for the lovely responses I received with the last chapter! Yes, I am whizzing through it right now, and those comments, as well as people choosing to follow or favorite the story certainly help with encouraging me to keep going! So thank you again for your support!_

_I'm really glad people connected with the last chapter; another confrontation will soon be coming, but first...a little ground work to pave the way. Don't worry, Branson will talk and reflect a little on what took place in this chapter! But there is more to drama and angst to come for these two, and I'm sure we all know what I'm talking about. ANYWAY, thanks again, and hope you enjoy this next installment!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Sixty-Nine<strong>

July 12, 1917

My God, the ignorance of some people! The assumptions they make! They hear the word "change", and they immediately begin a protest! No wonder things take so long to change; because people like _them_ automatically assume the worst, even when the facts show the opposite!

…

Perhaps it's just as well that I'll be leaving this place soon. If I have to spend another night at that table, surrounded by those…those…_simpletons_…I think I would go mad!

I was merely sitting in the servant's hall, minding my own business, and Ethel came over, "accidentally" bumping into me, only to land in a chair on my left. She "apologized", but made no move to leave, only to lean over my arm, which was holding the servant's paper, in a rather "provocative" manner.

I guess Ethel realized nothing would come of her "advices" on Thomas. She must be scraping the bottom of the barrel if she's now setting her sights on me.

I ignored her as best I could; I hate these flirtatious "mind games" that women sometimes play. She asked me what I was reading, although it was clear she didn't really care. I hoped that perhaps by telling her the truth, that I was reading about what was happening in Russia with the Tsar and the people's uprising, she'd find the topic boring and move onto "other prey". No such luck. She continued leaning over my arm, until she was practically sitting in my lap!

I never thought I'd say this, but thank God for Miss O'Brien. She entered the room, barking at me as usual, "you still here, Mr. Branson?" Ethel quickly disentangled herself, and we all stood as Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson entered behind O'Brien.

Mr. Carson invited me to stay for supper, despite the sour look Miss O'Brien wore. I should have left, I realized that now, but despite my better judgment, I stayed, thinking, _I'll be leaving this place soon; why not enjoy one last meal with your friends and fellow staff?_

Ethel then decided to share with the entire room what I had just told her. And Mr. Carson, being polite, asked what the news from Russia was about.

…

I don't know why it surprised me, how he and the rest of them reacted. This wasn't the first time we had a "difference of opinion"—only I've never felt more…more _ostracized_ for that opinion than tonight!

I explained that Kerensky's been made Prime Minister, after the Tsar and his family were removed from power. Clearly no one at the table had ever even heard of the man, based on the number of blank stares I received! I then continued, explaining that Kerensky won't go far enough for me—that my thoughts and opinions follow those of Lenin, who not only denounces the Tsar, but the bourgeoisie as well.

That seemed to register with some them, and I could tell that several people, including Mr. Carson, were beginning to "squirm" in their seats. God knows why I kept going; it's like trying to reason with a brick wall! All of us are working class people, who have been told since our childhoods that our sole purpose is to "serve" the status quo; now, in Russia, the people are realizing that that doesn't have to be the way! There doesn't have to be a "master" or "servant", all people regardless of their background can be equal! And that's what I want, along with Lenin; a people's revolution!

…

...

But despite all this information I was sharing, despite this…this…this chance for _enlightenment_ that I was offering them…all they could care about was what was happening to the Tsar.

…

…

My God! The bloody Tsar! How backwards can people be? This tyrant, this…this…oppressor, who's done horrible things to the common people of his country who starve and suffer in poverty! _That's_ who they're worried about?

Once a servant, always a servant, it seems.

…

I'm not surprised by Mr. Carson's reaction, or Mrs. Patmore's, who immediately began worrying over the Russian royal family when I explained that they were all under "house arrest" at the Alexander Palace. But Anna…I was shocked by her response!

I tried to calm Mrs. Patmore down, reassuring her that no harm would come to the royal family; why would the revolutionaries want to do that? And that was when Anna spoke up, saying "to make an example".

Granted, Anna and I have never had any deep, political discussions, but…her remark was just…so…so…_dismissive!_ Automatically assuming the worst! And it didn't help that Mr. Lang had to open his big mouth. He and I have never exchanged more than a pleasantry or two, but now, while I'm trying to get all of them to see reason, to not assume the worst when someone uses the word "revolutionary" or "new", he argues against me, telling me _I_ don't know what I'm talking about!

I argued that there's no point in bringing harm to a bunch of children, why assume that these rebels will do that? It's that sort of backwards thinking that keeps progress from happening! But Lang refused to listen, and went off about how "no one knows who's going to be killed when these things happen," and then said out loud, in front of everyone there, that Mrs. Patmore's nephew had been shot for cowardice.

…

…

Dinner was ruined after that…

It's just as well; I had lost my appetite even before that revelation.

…

Fools, all of them. Well, they won't have to deal with me and my "dangerous" opinions for much longer.

…

…Although, I am sorry for Mrs. Patmore. With everything I've read in the papers and everything I've seen at the hospital…I could never blame any man for being afraid. And her nephew's death is yet another example of the injustice this War has caused. So for Ireland, for Martin, for my brother-in-law, and now for Mrs. Patmore's nephew, I will take my stand against the army, and make my protest loud and clear—and God willing, a revolution will rise!

…

…

Damn it, Sybil…why…_why_ did you have to…to confront me, earlier today? Why did you have to look at me as if…_as if you cared?_ As if I _mattered_ to you? _WHY?_

…

...

…

I was so sure of myself, so calm and so determined with what I had decided. But she had to find me this morning and ruin it all!

She hasn't changed my mind, I don't mean that. But…her bloody questions! She insisted on knowing my reasons, and then began insisting that I was "throwing my life away"! So going to prison for a brief period of time is worse than dying on a battlefield? Or being shot or poisoned in a trench? Or…returning to an English hospital, after parts of you have been blown off? But she's convinced that my plans will "ruin" my life, or as she sees it, ruin my chances of ever working again. Heaven forbid I can never work for some posh family like hers!

…

…

Alright, that's not fair. And…I hated myself, for saying that to her and making her flinch. I didn't miss that…

But…did she have to be so observant? Did she have to say that thing about my family? I feel guilty enough as it is! I keep telling myself over and over that this is the right thing to do, that my family will understand—but there's still that small voice of doubt in the back of my head, and _she_ brought it out with her damn insights!

…

…

I left her standing there; she had murmured something about "there has to be another way". I don't see any other option, but I didn't contradict her. I grumbled something about letting me know if she ever found it, and then just walked away.

Let her believe that if it will make her feel better. Soon, I won't be around to bother her or anyone else anymore. I go to the doctor tomorrow, for my medical examination. I'll be gone when they all arrive—the officers, the medics, and…Thomas.

Yes, have I mentioned that Thomas of all people has been put in charge? Mr. Carson shared this with all of us tonight, during our very depressing dinner. How surprising that the only person who seemed pleased by this news was Miss O'Brien. Lord, I should have seen it coming. Only a few days ago, I was sitting next to her in the Servant's Hall, and she was complaining about Mrs. Crawley ordering her Ladyship about. I remember smirking at the time, but now I'm eating that smirk.

I'm sure if we could all get away with it, a collective groan would have arisen from the table.

Thomas has been promoted to "acting sergeant", and for the moment, Dr. Clarkson is the only other person above him. I say for the moment, because Dr. Clarkson will eventually find someone to be the overall "commander" of the house while it's a convalescent home. The reason this person needs to be found is because Dr. Clarkson can't stay at the house the entire time, and apparently his Lordship isn't comfortable having Thomas oversee and manage everything without a person of higher authority nearby, ready to call his attention, should he "get out of hand". Hopefully they'll find someone soon; no doubt Thomas is gleefully planning his invasion as we speak, and practicing his cutting remarks to Mr. Carson in a mirror, somewhere.

…

Why am I even wasting paper, writing about this? Why do I still care? I shouldn't, especially after this evening. Let Carson and the rest of them fend for themselves, this has nothing to do with me and after tomorrow, I'll have nothing to do with Downton Abbey ever again.

…

…

God, I should feel…elated about leaving this place! After so many years, I'm finally "putting my money where my mouth is"; I'm finally taking a stand, _a proper stand_, for something I believe in. I should be…happy…

…

…

But I'm not.

I'm far from happy.

…

I'm determined to see this through! I refuse to feel…to feel…regret.

Why should I feel regret? WHY? There's no reason! I've done all that I can do, I've traveled down this road far too many times already, and nothing changes. Nothing…

…

I said to her that I'd rather face prison than being shipped to some foreign land to die. I suppose the same is true when I say…I'd rather face prison…than another day of heartbreak.

…

…

So why do I feel like a failure? Why do I feel like a coward? Why is it that I feel like some kind of…of traitor?

Why is my heart telling me that…that _I've_ now become the enemy?


	70. Sybil's Diary XVIII

_Ok, it's nearly 2am in my corner of the world, but I *really* wanted to get this chapter up and posted before I take on what I expect to be a "beast" of a chapter tomorrow, the infamous "not at your best" scene. Anyway, THANK YOU for your readership and your comments; there are so many new "followers" to this story, as well as a good number of "favorites" that I received this week, so thank you, thank you, thank you! Please, leave a comment if you are able, and I hope you enjoy this speedy update._

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><p><strong>Chapter Seventy<strong>

July 13, 1917

Today is the day! Or rather, today was the day. The Downton Convalescent Home officially opened, at exactly half-past three this afternoon. Eighty-two officers were admitted; welcomed by nineteen nurses, twelve medics, four spare doctors…and the entire staff and household of Downton Abbey—as well as my family.

After so many weeks of preparation, so many weeks of set-up…after so many weeks of wondering if this would even happen! I can't believe that it has…and I can't believe how quickly this first day went.

Indeed, it was very busy; both my feet and lower back can attest to that! But…it was good, having things bustle about so. I can't deny that I welcomed the work…and the distraction it brought.

I also cannot deny, I was a little worried, meaning with how my family would be when the time came for the officers to arrive. I know they had a rather tense conversation yesterday afternoon, with Dr. Clarkson and Cousin Isobel, about who would serve as acting manager. I was surprised to hear Thomas had been chosen, but I suppose it makes sense, since he had the experience of being a footman here; at least he knows where to find everything, should the need arise. But despite that tense conversation, both Papa and Mama were there to greet each officer who came through the door, and Mary and Edith wasted no time in helping, offering water and showing the officers around, trying their best to answer any questions that arose. I couldn't help but smile as I listened to Edith; she tried to learn every man's name, and after delivering water, returned to the room to help put fresh sheets on beds or take book orders for the men. Who knew that she would be such a natural? Perhaps her gifts lie somewhere in the area of management?

Of course the staff was helpful, as always; even O'Brien. Although no one could have been more enthusiastic to help than Ethel, it must be said. She sought me out and asked if there was anything else that needed to be done, and offered that she didn't mind going around and seeing if each officer had enough blankets, or for those bound to a wheelchair, to take them for a turn around the grounds. I smiled at her willingness, and told her I would speak to Mrs. Hughes, to see if she could be spared. This, however, brought on a frown, but she quickly tried to hide it and thanked me, before going about her usual tasks for the day.

But the biggest surprise and perhaps the most pleasant surprise was Matthew's unannounced visit!

I heard Cousin Isobel give a squeal of delight from the hall, and poked my head around the corner, wondering what had caused the sound. I grinned when I saw Matthew…and then grinned even more when I saw _another_ Crawley sister take notice, too.

I overheard them speaking, while I was busy folding sheets in one of the main rooms. Matthew teased Mary, saying he never thought to "cast her as Florence Nightingale", which did make me giggle, but neither of them noticed; why would they, when they have each other?

Matthew revealed that he's on tour with a General Strutt. They just finished touring the camps in the midlands and will now be visiting those in the northern counties. I was thinking the exact thing Mary asked, which was if we would see more of him, while on tour. And then Matthew made the most incredible suggestion; having General Strutt come and visit Downton, to see how we've converted the house into a convalescent home!

I wished I could have heard more, but Cousin Isobel called for me then, and I had to leave.

Imagine…a general of the British Army…taking time out of his tour to visit our convalescent home. In the past, such an idea would have me bubbling and running to one person, eager to share with him what I had just heard…

…

…

But that's changed now.

…

I did everything I could to keep myself distracted yesterday, after what happened. But no matter how much work I made myself do, no matter how many tasks I tried to accomplish…I still couldn't shake away everything he had said.

…

I just…I know he's angry and upset, and there is obviously something he's not telling me. And…and I think it's more than…than my recent behavior towards him these past few weeks, when I was avoiding him at all costs. That was bloody brilliant on my part, wasn't it? I thought by avoiding him I would somehow spare our hearts—but it appears I did quite the opposite.

But even with that in mind, I do believe there's something bigger, something else that's upsetting him so. And it's driving me crazy that I have no clue what it could be!

But I refuse to accept his answer of going to prison as a conscientious objector as the "only" option for not wanting to fight. He says he's considered all the consequences, but...no, there must be a way for him to stay true to his beliefs, of not participating in battle, but at the same time, avoiding prison so he can still take care of his family and avoid having a black mark put on his name!

…

…And…and I _think_ I may have found it.

I should have been exhausted when I crawled into bed last night, but I wasn't; I could barely sit still! Perhaps it was because I was afraid of what sort of dream would greet me if I fell asleep…but I know that truly, it was because now, alone in my room and without a task to keep me busy…now, I would have to face the confrontation we had had, think about what could be done.

I tossed and turned for hours last night, barely getting any sleep. I still had no alternatives when I woke up this morning, or when the officers arrived. But this afternoon, when I overheard Matthew and Mary talk…an idea suddenly came to me.

As soon as I could be spared from Cousin Isobel, I went to seek out Papa right away. I found him talking to Dr. Clarkson, and asked him if he knew of anyone, any of his friends who were still serving as acting officers, that he kept in close correspondence with? He didn't understand why I was asking this question, so I explained I wondered if he knew if any of them were in need of…staff? After all, that was how Papa met Bates! He still seemed confused, but thankfully Dr. Clarkson told me he knew of a few, and also inquired why I was curious. I took a deep breath…and explained my "idea".

What if we could find a way for Branson to serve as a driver to a general, or some other high-ranking officer? I went on to say that his skills as a driver are top quality, and it would be shame to put them to waste. I know that men, like General Strutt, need to be driven around while making their tours; what if we could help someone like Branson find something similar?

I know it's not a perfect solution…but if his main duty is to serve as driver to a high-ranking officer, even if it's across the Channel…I would think that would keep him far away from the trenches, and that way he wouldn't have to fight! He would more or less still be doing what he does now, serving as a chauffeur…just with a slightly different uniform.

…

…

Alright, I know it's not perfect. Even while I'm writing it, it sounds quite naïve. But…it's the only solution I can think of, and I don't have a great deal of time to find another! I know that he went to a doctor for his medical report this afternoon (and after what happened yesterday, I'm not surprised he didn't send me word to how it went) and who knows how much longer he'll still be here after that. I only have so much time to find an answer, and this truly is the best I can do.

…But there may be some hope.

Papa still looked rather baffled after my explanation, but Dr. Clarkson looked thoughtful. He did say he had a friend who was a colonel who had recently mentioned he needed a driver, especially now that he was stationed at the British Embassy in Paris. It's not perfect, but…if Dr. Clarkson and Papa can somehow…pull a few strings and convince the Army to send Branson to this colonel, maybe he'll be able to stay out of harm's way _and_ stay true to his beliefs…

It's a start, at least. Dr. Clarkson told me he would write to his friend that very evening; I can only pray we will receive an answer quickly!

…

...

It's very late here; almost two in the morning. I know I should try to get some sleep, and yet…I don't know if that's possible; I don't know if I'll be able to relax at all until Dr. Clarkson receives a reply.

…

I hate this, this thought of…of him leaving. It was foolish of me to avoid him, I see that now. My heart is going to be broken no matter what, so I should be enjoying every minute I can with him, before the Army try and take him away from me. But…that may be too late. He's so angry, and…I don't know how to make it better. I've stood by surgeons, holding partially severed limbs while they attempt to sew them back together, and yet I don't know how to repair a severed bond between myself and my dearest friend.

But all that matters is his life. His health and…and his happiness. I wish that he could be here, forever. It's a selfish thing to say, I know, but it's the truth; I do wish he could stay, and never leave my side. I wish I could keep him, locked away from the War and its far-reaching arms. I want that so badly, it brings tears to my eyes!

…But I know that I can't have it. I know that I can't have it because the Army has called him forth…and I know that I can't have it in that way I truly wish I could.

Yet, if I can at least find some way to keep him safe, _and_ out of prison, so that he has the freedom to follow and fulfill anything he dreams in the future…then so be it. I will sacrifice my heart's desire to forever have him here.

What was that passage Mama read to us, from the Bible? _"When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I understood as a child, I thought like a child…but when I became a man, I put away childish things…"_

It's time for me to put away childish wishes and fantasies; it's time for me to put away childish and selfish desires. After all, I always knew that I couldn't keep him…

Indeed, it's time for me to grow up, and accept this parting…

…

…

…But that doesn't mean I have to like it.


	71. Confrontations: part two

_Phew! I did it! I tackled this chapter head on, and wrestled it into submission! I will tell you right now, this was not an easy chapter to write, even though I had a clear idea in my mind where I wanted to go with it; but as I sat and began writing it, it did begin to feel like a wrestling match, and I had to get up and walk away from my computer several times, before going back and trying to write the next bit. But I was determined to get it done, and even though technically it is Saturday where I am, I finished it and am now posting for your pleasure!_

_I hope you enjoy, I know a lot of you have been looking forward to this confrontation. As always, please, if you are able, drop a comment and let me know what you thought! I appreciate all the wonderful feedback I've gotten, everyone has been SO encouraging this week, it truly has been a huge help. Thank you again!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seventy-One<strong>

Of all the rotten luck…

He stared down at the piece of paper again, reading it for the third time, truly trying to digest its contents.

_Thank you for the prompt report to the medical examiner. However, it has come to our attention, that due to a mitral valve prolapse, which is causing a pansystolic murmur of the heart, that we must deny your admittance. _

Very direct; no over-pompous words to express regret, just a simple clear reason, followed by several lines to explain what exactly was wrong with his heart, but also to assure him that despite this discovery, he could continue to live a long and healthy life.

He couldn't believe it. After everything he had planned, after all the peps talks he had given himself whenever a doubt attempted to rise up in his mind, after the emotional confrontations he had gone through with the other members of staff and…and with Sybil…

It had all been for nothing.

He had never felt so dejected. Even though he was nothing like William, who wanted more than anything to join the army and fight, he had been looking forward to going—even if it were for very different reasons.

_I was going to make a stand; I was going to prove a point! I was going to finally show the world the injustice of this war and spark a revolution!_

A cynical voice inside his head told him to get off his high horse. There was no guarantee that his so-called "protest" would do such a thing; it wasn't like he was the nation's first contentious objector. But…he had such hopes; hopes to make a difference of some kind. And after everything he had learned, everything that had happened to his homeland and his family, after everything that _wasn't_ happening in his life…he just wanted to make a change.

Mr. Carson had given him the letter, just shortly after breakfast. It had been four days since his examination, and he was surprised it was taking the doctor this long to respond. William had received his response only two days after his examination! When the letter arrived, he didn't rush somewhere private to open it, not right away; he took his time finishing a few tasks in the garage, preparing the Renault for his Lordship, who had told him last night that he wanted the car for the afternoon, and then…sat down on the bench to open it.

He couldn't believe it.

A heart murmur? No, it wasn't possible! He always felt so healthy, he never had any problems. As a boy he ran races and got into scrapes, but never once did he feel shortness of breath or pains in his chest. When did this happen?

_Shortly after meeting Sybil Crawley_, the cynical voice grumbled. _Rather poetic, don't you think? A murmur of the heart is the one thing keeping you out of this war—and the one thing that's keeping you trapped in this house._

A murmur of the heart. Indeed, perhaps that was the best way to describe his feelings for Sybil.

Not since Martin's death had he felt the urge to punch something. When Sybil had rejected his proposal he had managed to get into that nasty pub fight. God almighty, he was spoiling for a fight now.

Despite this depressing news, he still had a job to do (although it was tempting to just throw a rag down and walk out of the place, not even bothering to pack any of his things; just leave and be done with it all). But he didn't do that; instead, he brought the car around to the front of the house, as his Lordship had requested, and waited.

Only it wasn't his Lordship that came outside, but Dr. Clarkson. "Ah! Branson, I was hoping to find you!"

Branson was surprised by the doctor's greeting. The good doctor had never sought him out before. "Beggin' your pardon, sir?"

Dr. Clarkson simply smiled. "I received a telegram this morning, from a friend of mine; a colonel newly stationed in Paris."

Branson nodded his head as if he understood, when in truth he was completely dumbfounded by the doctor's words.

"I had wired him a few days ago, told him that you would be leaving soon, for training; I was hoping to get a response before you left, and I'm glad that it came just in time!"

He was more confused now than ever. And that confusion clearly showed, because Dr. Clarkson's smile began to fade into a frown. "Didn't Lady Sybil tell you?"

Branson flinched at the sound of her name. "Tell me what?" Every nerve was on high alert.

"Oh, no wonder," Dr. Clarkson apologized. The doctor then proceeded to tell him about Sybil's suggestion, about asking if her father or Dr. Clarkson knew of any officers in need of a driver; a military escort to take them from place to place. Apparently, Dr. Clarkson's friend did need such a man while he was stationed in Paris, and preferred a member of the British Army than a French driver, and so had wired Dr. Clarkson back, saying that once Branson was finished with his training, to alert him so he could put in a request to have Branson stationed with him, as his driver.

He listened to this entire story, and felt his jaw clench with every explanation.

_ Sybil…_

She had interfered! He had told her his plans, and she had gone behind his back, trying to…trying to "find another way" as she had put it, that day. At the time when she had said that, he hadn't given the comment much thought; there was no other solution as far as he could see! He certainly had never considered she truly would go and try to find that mysterious "third option"…but lo and behold, she had.

_She did this so you wouldn't have to fight or go to prison._ He easily saw her way of thinking; she thought that if he became a driver to some high-ranking officer, he wouldn't have to fight. In her mind, that would be enough; he wouldn't have to sacrifice his principles but at the same time, avoid prison and the black mark that would be put upon his name.

_But she doesn't understand! _He wasn't choosing to be an objector simply because he didn't believe in the War—he wanted to make a point! He wanted to report for training, he wanted to stand before all those generals, and while the new recruits stepped forward to solute, he would let the world know at the top of his lungs, his beliefs about the injustice of the War, as well as his beliefs about a free Ireland! This had been his opportunity!

He was already disappointed, but to learn that she had done this thing, that she had gone to her father and Dr. Clarkson and talked about him like this…it was humiliating.

Branson lifted his chin and tried very hard to swallow his pride. "Thank you, Dr. Clarkson…but that won't be necessary." The doctor looked confused, until Branson held up the slip of paper that he had been keeping in his pocket; his rejection letter from the Army.

"Ah, I see…" Dr. Clarkson didn't have to be told; he apparently knew what that slip of paper meant. An awkward pause fell across them then; after all, what does one say to such a thing? Dr. Clarkson gave a small smile, and then muttered something about making some rounds at the hospital, before disappearing back inside the house.

That urge he had been feeling earlier, the urge to get into a fight, returned once more. He didn't know who he was more upset with; Sybil for her meddling? Or the British Army for keeping him out.

And lo and behold, not two seconds after he thought her name, he heard her voice, sweetly laughing with another nurse, as they pushed a vacant wheelchair from across the drive towards the front entrance of the house where he waited.

_Don't look at me, don't look at me!_ While he was quite angry with her, he didn't want to take _all_ of the anger he was feeling out on her. He tried to make himself look busy, he tried to look as if he were focused on polishing the car, and he kept glancing at the doorway, hoping that his Lordship would exit any second, providing any excuse to leave before she reached him.

No such luck.

"Are you waiting for Papa?"

He closed his eyes and groaned inwardly. Damn it all. It didn't help that she sounded so…_positive_.

He didn't know what to say, he just kept his eyes on the car door he was polishing. He couldn't very well ignore her, but at the same time he didn't have to answer her.

"Do you want me to go and find him?"

_Yes! Please, go and bring him out at once!_ He should have said that to her. She had just offered him the perfect excuse…

And yet, despite every warning that was ringing in his head, every warning that was screaming at him to keep his mouth shut despite his anger and frustrations…he opened his mouth and muttered, "They turned me down…the army."

He didn't look at her when he spoke, but he could see her reflection in the glass on the car. Her sweet smile that she had been wearing just a few minutes ago, disappeared completely, and was replaced with a look of utter confusion. "Why?"

She genially sounded upset! That even made less sense to him. _Perhaps she had dreams of grandeur of you becoming a military escort? Such a shame to smash those dreams, as if you fill her dreams at all, _he inwardly scoffed.

"Apparently I have a heart murmur," he replied, putting on a smile that was anything but genuine. "Or to be more precise…" he added, opening the notice he had just shown Dr. Clarkson. "A mitral valve prolapse is causing a pansystolic murmur."

He tossed the letter onto the driver's seat, feeling utterly disgusted. He lifted his eyes to where she stood, on the other side of the car; she was extremely quiet. Sybil stood there, her eyes glancing back and forth between the discarded letter, and his chest…to where his heart lay.

Finally, she spoke. "I don't know what to say…"

Neither did he. Her voice, which had only a few moments ago been filled with pleasantness was now filled with concern. As if…as if she_ actually cared_ for him.

"Is it dangerous?"

In some ways, he was surprised by her question. He assumed as a nurse, she knew everything there was to know about the human body and all its abnormalities. He looked away from her face, not even bothering to hide his grimace. "Only if you're planning to humiliate the British Army," he grumbled.

The anger was flaring up inside him. Like a raging river, approaching a dam and threatening to burst. Images of himself, being carted off by soldiers as he cried out for justice against tyrannical leaders, played over and over across his mind's eye. He had been prepared, he was resolved to his fate; but now that would never come to pass. And as he lifted his eyes once more to see her face…her beautiful and concerned face…he felt bitterness fill his heart.

"I suppose you're glad."

His words were cold and harsh. They were meant to leave a sting, perhaps even reveal to her without saying the exact words, that he was aware of her scheme. But instead of seeing an expression of guilt or recognition play across her face, he saw happy relief.

"You're not going to be killed and you're going to prison! Of course I'm glad!"

The bitterness in his heart was like bile, rising in the back of his throat. He swore his jaw cracked by how hard he had clenched it. In the past, seeing such a smile on her face, and hearing such beautiful, caring relief in her voice would have caused his heart to float to cloud nine. But right now, he felt quite the opposite. And as unfair as it may be, he resented her for it.

"Don't count your chickens," he warned. His voice was dark, cold, and menacing. "If I don't get them one way, I'll get them another."

Sybil's relieved smile disappeared instantly, and she even took a tiny step back, as if someone had doused her with a splash of cold water. She opened her mouth to speak, paused, and then leaned forward slightly, her eyes intensely boring into his, as she asked, "Why do you have to be so angry all the time?"

He shifted his gaze to her, his frown darkening as she spoke. How could she ask him that? Alright, so she didn't know everything that was going on in his life, that was fair…but she _knew_ how he felt about her, she _knew_ that she had purposefully avoided him over these past few weeks, and she _knew_ that she had gone behind his back, and sought out "help" for him, even though he hadn't asked for it and even though he had told her, very plainly, that this was what he wanted! And yet she stood there, asking him _why_ he was angry? Making him feel that all of this, everything…were his fault?

But her next words threw him over the edge

"I know we weren't exactly at our best in Ireland—"

_"Not at your best?"_

Sybil froze, her mouth hanging open as he interrupted her.

_"Not at your best!"_ he repeated, his voice growing louder and his face darkening even more.

She shut her mouth and her face went pale. A look of realization fell across her features, and she stood, frozen, as he began to advance around the car towards her.

Suddenly…everything, all pain and frustration and worry that had been clouding his head and his heart for the last few months—Sean going to war and losing his fingers, Frank's hooligan habits, his mother trying to bring order to a world that seemed to be falling apart at the seams, his homeland being ravaged by violence and bloodshed but receiving little attention because all eyes were fixed on the East, and then Martin…Martin's senseless, meaningless death; Martin, who was the last person in the world to get involved in anything political, who truly was an innocent civilian…had been lost in the crossfire simply because he was Irish, and in the wrong place at the wrong time. All of those memories, all of those concerns, all of those emotions rode that raging river inside him, and burst through the dam that was barely holding back his anger.

"I lost a cousin in the Easter Rising last year!" he growled. He didn't stop moving until he had come around and more or less had her trapped between himself and the car. He wanted her to hear him out, loud and clear.

Sybil bit her lip and looked down at her feet. "You never said…" she began with a murmur, although it was clear she truly didn't know what to say to this revelation. That was fine, he did.

"Well, I'm saying it now!" he snarled. "He was walking down North King Street one day and an English soldier saw him and shot him dead! When they asked why he was killed, the officer said, 'because he was probably a rebel'." With every word, the grief that he had been feeling for over a year, the anger and the bitterness that he had been keeping inside, towards the soldiers, towards the rebels, towards Martin, even towards himself…began to come out with every syllable. His tone was harsh, his words were crisp, and he could feel a traitorous sting behind his eyes. But despite all that, he kept his gaze locked on hers as he revealed his revulsion towards everything that had happened to his home and family. "So don't say you were not at your best."

Sybil's own eyes widened with each word, and he could see what looked to be tears, shimmering in the depths of her eyes. But before he could say more or she could respond, his Lordship came bustling out the door, looking slightly frantic. "Sorry to keep you waiting, but we're going to have to step on it."

Sybil quickly stepped out of the way, while Branson obediently opened the door, each of them acting as if nothing had happened, which was just as well, since his Lordship didn't seem to be aware of the intense "discussion" that he had just interrupted.

Branson held the door open while his Lordship climbed inside. Much to his annoyance, Sybil had not retreated into the house, but continued to stand where she was…her eyes never leaving him.

He glanced at her, not bothering to hide his frown or his pain, then shut the door, and proceeded to walk around the car to the driver's seat, trying his best to avoid her eyes…which continued to watch him.

Good God, was this what it felt like to be her, all those days ago, when he kept looking at her while they set up those hospital beds? He had purposefully kept his eyes locked on her, as if daring her to look at him. If it made her feel uncomfortable, he was glad, because he wanted her to know how much it hurt, how much it bothered him that she refused to have anything to do with him, let alone refuse to look at him.

Now, the shoe was on the other foot. Now it was _her_ gaze, intense and fierce, locking onto _him_, daring _him_ to look at her. And unlike her, he did give in, he did return her gaze as he climbed into his side of the car.

What he saw was not what he expected. He expected anger; he expected indignation for how he had just spoken to her, for how he had more or less blamed her nationality for all the troubles going on in the lives of his family and homeland. At the very least he expected bitterness; he had mistakenly assumed that those tears he had seen swimming in her eyes were because of how he had shouted at her.

But what he saw were none of those things.

Concern; unabashed concern…_for him_.

And sorrow, too. Not for herself, not for how he had shouted at her and railed against her and her people, ridiculing her when she talked about them being "not at their best"; no, all the sorrow she held, all the unshed tears that had formed in her eyes were for him…and the story he had just shared.

She knew nothing about Martin, other than the fact that he was his cousin and had once worked in Devon. She didn't know how Martin disapproved of her, or rather, disapproved of his feelings towards her. She didn't know much about his family at all, really…but despite that lack of knowledge…he saw nothing but care and concern in her eyes for them. And despite the angry, cynical voices that kept shouting in his head and fueling the bitterness in his heart…even they could not deny that what he saw in her eyes was pure and genuine.

Even as he released the break and turned the car away from the house, he could still feel her watching him, still keeping her gaze fixed upon him…even after the car disappeared from view.

Damn it all.

He didn't want this. He didn't want her pity! He didn't want her to look at him like that! He didn't want her to…to care for him! Not now, not when everything seemed to be settled!

Of all the rotten luck…

Truly, nothing was going his way today. He couldn't go to the Army, he couldn't make his stand, he had just learned that he had been the subject of discussion amongst his employer and Dr. Clarkson, and despite his embarrassment, he couldn't reveal that to them…and now, after everything was beginning to fall apart around him…_now_, Lady Sybil Crawley was acting like she cared. And the thing that frightened him the most was…he truly believed she did.

_But not in the way you _want_ her to care. She just cares about you enough so you feel like a right arse for the way you've spoken to her and treated her._

It was true. He did feel like an arse. He felt like a slimy git, for all the things he had said to her the other day, when she confronted him about his summons, and for what had just taken place now. Yes, they had argued in the past…but had he ever spoken to her like _this?_ Even when he jealously told her he never wanted to meet her friend, Tom Bellasis all those summers ago, had he spoken so harshly and bitterly to her as he had done today?

_Mother would box my ears if she heard me speak that way to another woman, no matter what her social standing was—and rightfully so._

The anger within him was beginning to flood once again, only this time it was directed completely at himself. God, he hated himself! He hated how everything was turning out, he felt like a complete and utter failure. He couldn't win the heart of the woman he loved, and he couldn't avenge his loved ones by seeing through with his plan. And to top it all off, he now felt absolute guilt for how he had spoken Sybil. _Behaving like a bully,_ he bitterly thought.

"Branson, be careful!" his Lordship bellowed from the backseat. "Slow down!"

Branson hadn't realized how fast he was driving; his foot had been pressing down harder and harder upon the pedal with each thought, that the tires were beginning to make a horrible screeching sound, and when he rounded a corner, his Lordship was nearly thrown from one side of the seat to the other.

"Good God man, stop the car at once!"

He obeyed. He quickly pulled off to the side and grabbed the break, causing the car to lurch and grumble as it finally came to a complete stop.

He was breathing very hard. One hand gripped the steering wheel while the other clutched the break lever. His Lordship was righting himself, grumbling as he did so, and Branson could only imagine the look of annoyance on his face.

_I always knew my behavior would one day get me sacked, I just never thought it would be like this._

Lord Grantham took a deep breath, before letting a long sigh escape his lips. He sounded irritated, and Branson couldn't blame him; he was rather irritated with himself, too. But instead of a string of harsh reprimands, he felt a hand reach across and grip his shoulder.

"I saw Dr. Clarkson, just before I left the house," he began.

Branson felt intense heat rise to his cheeks, and in his embarrassment, he kept his eyes on his lap. _Please, not more pity? I don't want any pity; I don't deserve it!_

"He told me…that you showed him what he could only imagine was a…medical notice? One that denied your admittance?"

Branson didn't say anything, he simply continued to grip the steering wheel and break lever.

"I'm sorry, old chap."

He lifted his head then, and found himself craning his neck to look at his Lordship. He had never heard the Earl speak in such an "informal" way before, and certainly not with someone like himself.

Lord Grantham gave him an apologetic smile, before releasing his shoulder and leaning back in his seat. "I know this may sound strange, Branson, coming from someone like myself, but…I do understand."

Branson couldn't help it. He lifted a brow in confusion. "Understand, milord?"

"Yes," the Earl sighed, and that bitterness Branson had been feeling was now mirrored on the face of his employer. "You see…I had been hoping, for a long time, that I would be…reinstated; put back into active service," he explained. "I just…I wanted to do my part, for the cause," he continued. "But much to my disappointment, I learned that…they didn't want me, at least not for what I was hoping," he paused to sigh once again, a somewhat cynical smile passing over his lips. "They needed a mascot, not a soldier. I suppose a man like me is _too old_ for such a task, even though in truth, I don't feel as old as they say I am."

Branson felt a corner of his mouth lift slightly at his employer's joke. It was the sort of joke he had been making earlier, inside his head. A joke at one's own expense, to hide the bitterness of feeling rejected.

"Anyway, what I'm trying to say is…I understand your disappointment, my lad. I know you wanted to do your part—"

_You have no idea, milord._

"—But just…know that even when things don't work out the way you originally hope or plan that they would...that doesn't mean you can't find other ways to contribute." He gave Branson a genuine smile, one filled with encouragement, although there was still a twinge of disappointment in his voice. "I'm still trying to find mine, I must admit, but…I know that it's out there," he chuckled. "Who knows, perhaps this wild idea to make Downton a convalescent home can be my contribution, although I think Sybil has more claim in it than I ever will."

He chuckled then and Branson smiled, although his brain was already speeding ahead.

"_Even when things don't work out the way you originally hope or plan that they would…that doesn't mean you can't find other ways…" _

_No, indeed it doesn't._ And thanks to his Lordship, Branson was now feeling very encouraged to find that _other_ way…

"Thank you, milord," he finally said, after a short pause. Even though his Lordship had completely misunderstood Branson's bitterness, or rather, misunderstood his reasons for feeling as he did, his words were helpful, and despite all the cynicism he had been feeling towards the English as of late…he knew that his Lordship, like Sybil, was being quite genuine in his concern.

"Well, best get you to your destination," he announced, putting on a smile, releasing the break and pulling the car back onto the road, and driving at a much more reasonable speed.

_That doesn't mean you can't find other ways…_

Yes, he would be diligent; he would keep his eyes and ears open for other opportunities to take a stand and let his beliefs be known. He would find a way, just as he had sworn to Sybil, earlier.

The sudden thought of her shook him from his brief revelry, however.

_She'll be so disappointed in you…_

He tried to tell that blasted voice, the one that seemed to be reverberating around his heart—his heart murmur, perhaps?—to shut it.

But with every mile that passed, the image and feeling of her eyes—wide, blue, and full of concern—kept burning upon his back; burning right through him…to his very core.


	72. Sybil's Diary XIX

_After the "not at your best" scene, I needed to explore Sybil's feelings; I like to think this was how she was feeling. It's a little different from how I originally conceived this chapter, but I'm happier with this result! We continue to travel the ups and downs of the Sybil/Branson emotional roller-coaster that is S2E3!_

_Thanks, as always, for the lovely encouraging words and comments! You guys are awesome._

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><p><strong>Chapter Seventy-Two<strong>

July 17, 1917

I understand now. It finally all makes sense…

His anger, his sorrow, his frustration…his reasons for wanting to make that stand as a conscientious objector…

I understand it clearly, now.

…

…

Oh Branson…

…

Yes, we have had our arguments in the past (I'll never forget that explosive one we had a few summers ago, over that silly misunderstanding with Tom Bellasis), but…today, this was so different.

In the past, when we argued, there was fire, there was…passion.

But this…this was cold.

I've never heard him speak in such a cold, menacing manner, before. Truly, it chilled my heart! But…I can't blame him. And while I was the one to whom he released this "chilling fury" upon…I don't believe he was personally trying to…well, to attack me, so to speak. It wasn't _me_ he was angry with (well, not _solely_ me)…and while I was shocked by his words…in all honesty, I didn't take it personally. While I can't deny that my eyes did fill with tears as he told me his story, those tears weren't because I felt sorry for myself for being yelled at…nor do I resent him for yelling at me. My tears were for him…for his cousin, for his family, for…for all the hardships they are facing…while he is…is…_trapped_…here.

…

…

Oh God…I truly, truly am the most selfish, uncaring creature in the world.

Poor Martin; I…I didn't know, I never realized…but it makes sense now. While Branson has never gone into great detail about his cousin, I at least knew that he cared for him, dearly; that was quite obvious when he went to visit him in Devon, back when the War started. And I remember his return, after that trip, and how sad he looked…

I knew enough to know that Martin meant a great deal to Branson. I knew enough to know that Martin was the member of his family to whom he was closest to; and…and now, _only now_, do I finally realize that last spring, when I found Branson in the garage, trying his hardest to keep his face in the shadows, even though it was obvious by the tremor in his voice that he was upset…that Martin had died, and his death truly left a hole in Branson's heart.

I can't believe I never put the pieces of the puzzle together until now. Good God, how…how could I have been so blind!

…

Did I even bother talking to Branson about the Easter Rising last spring? Oh Lord, I'm ashamed to say…I don't think I did. I certainly have no memory of such a conversation, which shocks me to think that something so…so…so life-changing...would completely pass my notice.

I remember reading about the Rising, but I remember it was a small article, and had been printed several days after the event. What on earth was I doing last spring, that had me occupied in such a way that I wouldn't even think about going to my…_my best friend_...who I knew could be directly impacted by those events, to at the very least talk to him and find out if his family were alright? Or to even gather his opinion on the matter? It's not as if Branson and I haven't discussed the possibility for Irish Independence; it's not a taboo subject, it's not like he's immediately rallying behind Sinn Fein and only pointing out the English's shortcomings. He's always been so fair in those discussions, pointing out the positives and negatives on both sides, even those that he doesn't agree with—which is why I have always thought he would be splendid in politics, because politics needs more people like him who are willing to look at both sides before casting judgment!

Oh Lord, I'm rambling. Even when I write, I find that I can ramble.

But truly…what on earth was I doing last spring during that Easter week? I can't use my nursing as an excuse, since it was before that…

…

…

Oh heavens, now I remember; Easter baskets. I was busy making Easter baskets with—I can't remember which, how awful is that?—with one of my charities, and was preparing to deliver them to the children whose fathers had gone to fight.

A noble cause, I remember thinking at the time. A _safe_ and sweet cause, the kind that ladies of my upbringing are supposed to do, along with knitting socks and mittens for soldiers, and selling tickets and programs for some charity concert.

…

…

…I've come a long way from that sort of thinking, I suppose.

…

But…that's no excuse for my neglect. For truly, that is what I did, I _neglected_ my friend. I knew that the Rising had happened, I had read about it, but I never even bothered to go to him and ask him his thoughts on it, let alone ask after his family! And I stand there, lecturing Granny about treating people as equals…when I fail to do it with someone who…for a very, very long time, I have seen as _my_ equal.

What is that line that Rochester says to Jane, in Jane Eyre? _"You are my equal and my likeness…"_

Even if the rest of the world doesn't see it, I have always felt in my heart…even before I realized my feelings…that Branson is my equal, and my likeness.

Which makes this even worse!

Oh God…poor Martin. And his family! And all the families, who have lost someone to…to…senseless violence and war!

…

…

…I'm starting to understand the reason behind being a conscientious objector.

…

No wonder he didn't want to fight. No wonder he was so intent on taking that stand! This had nothing to do with personal beliefs or politics (well, not entirely).

I have a feeling Branson would argue that with me (if he spoke to me at all), but…listening to him today, hearing his pain and his anger, I see that…that his reason for wanting to take that stand is because he is still grieving. And I can't fault him for that; I would dare anyone to fault him for that! Truly, Martin's death was unjust…and I can see now that Branson's wish to "humiliate" the British Army, was in some way a chance to…avenge his cousin, I suppose.

…

Oh God, I'll never forgive myself. I stood there today, dumbfounded by his revelation that his cousin had been killed, and what were the words that came out of my mouth? _"You never said…"_

YOU NEVER SAID! Really, Sybil? Really? Oh well done you.

That's no excuse, and I know it. I had plenty of opportunities to return to him after I had found him upset last spring and ask him what was wrong.

…But I didn't. And, as much as I wish I could…I can't go back and make it right.

…

…

And I fear…it may be too late for me to make things right, now.

…

Oh heaven help me, I have been such a fool! I've mishandled this entire…mess! I've only made things worse and…and it's completely my fault.

…

…

I should have told him, after I finished school last winter, I should have told him then and there that…that while I care for him, I…I don't love him.

…

…

Yes, it's a complete lie, but he doesn't have to know that! No one does! Let it be my own cross to bear (I've gotten used to carrying it after all this time!) But I should have told him that, I should have confronted him once and for all, and told him that I didn't love him…so that at the very least, I could have put an end to his pain. Because that's what I'm doing, I see that now…I'm making things worse, not better.

…

…And yet…

…

And yet, I…I can't stand the thought of saying that to him. God forgive me, but it's true. I fear that if I try to tell him that I don't love him, my emotions will betray me, I'll become a blubbering mess, and he'll either hate me for lying to him—both with my words and with my emotions, or…or…

…

…Or…he'll try to propose to me a second time. And…and while I don't think he'll do that, because I truly believe he despises me right now…but if he did…God help me, I don't think I could say no. Even though I didn't say "no" the last time, I didn't say anything to encourage him, either. But…I don't think I would have the strength to refuse him. And that frightens me more than anything! Because…because they'll never let us be together! And I don't just mean Granny or Mama and Papa; I mean…the world.

I dream of a world where women truly are treated as equals with men. I dream of a world where people of different classes and backgrounds can live together, peacefully, as equals.

But…I don't have Branson's faith that this will all just magically happen when the War ends! A romance, like the one he once envisioned, like the one I wish could be…just…doesn't happen in "real life".

It's all well and fine for Cinderella to marry a prince, or even for my beloved Jane Eyre to go from governess to mistress of Thornfield Hall…but those are just stories.

…

…

…

And even as I'm writing this, I find that I can't keep my selfish thoughts and feelings at bay. This entry was supposed to be about _him_, and once again, I've made it about myself.

…

I wouldn't blame Branson for wanting to leave and return to Ireland after today. And…yes, while I can't lie and say that I wouldn't be upset by this news and miss him terribly…I…I would like to think I _would be_ understanding, and even supportive of such a decision.

…

I'd like to think that, at least.

…

I spoke with Dr. Clarkson earlier, before he left for his rounds at the hospital. I asked him to tell me everything he could about heart murmurs. I made up some story about some phantom patient, not wanting Dr. Clarkson to make a connection to Branson (Lord knows I've embarrassed him enough, already). He told me it all depends on the condition of the patient. I said that he (Branson) seemed to be fit and in very good health, and then recalled the words Branson had said, that it was a "mitral-valve prolapse". Dr. Clarkson assured me that it wasn't dangerous (the very question I had asked Branson when he told me the truth), that it was only serious if blood were to flow backward in the valve, but such things were very rare, and that the patient should be fine, so long as he refrains from traumatic activity. He paused then, as if wondering how someone with a heart murmur could possibly be a recovering soldier, but I quickly retreated before he could ask.

I am grateful for Dr. Clarkson's explanation, but still…I never imagined, out of all the things this War would bring, and all the worries I had about Branson enlisting or being called up, I never once paused to consider that something like _this_ could be discovered.

…

…

Dr. Clarkson can tell me it's harmless all he wants; I know that I'll still be worrying about Branson's health, long after today.

…

I kept watch as much as possible, as the day went on. Every time I could get away with it, I went to a window to see if the car had returned. But I never went to the garage, even when I did see Papa at dinner. I suppose Branson didn't say anything to him; Papa seemed to be in a good mood, the first I've seen, really, since the convalescent home opened. Tonight, he kept talking about General Strutt, and how he was actually looking forward to the General's visit, which will be sometime before the end of the month.

I wasn't much for conversation tonight, nor did I have much of an appetite. I excused myself early, feigning fatigue, and escaped to my room, where I have been since.

If I were brave, I would go to the garage—no, his cottage, and I would tell him…I would tell him…

…

I know what I would _want_ to tell him…but I also know that I can't. So instead, I would tell him what I need to tell him, which is that I'm sorry; so, so sorry for what happened last Easter, to his family and his home. I would ask for his forgiveness for my neglect, for not being the confidant he needed then, and I would offer my deepest sympathies for his cousin, as well as for all the innocent who suffer in times of war. And then, after saying all this, I would go. I wouldn't wait for him to reply, I don't even think I would want to. I would simply leave…not because I was seeking relief for my own guilt, but because…because he doesn't need to reply to "make me feel better", no; he just needs to know that…I know why he shouted, as he did, and that I understand why. And that…despite everything…if he still wanted me—

…

—As his friend…then I would be that for him.

…

…

Even though I wish I could be more.

* * *

><p><em>Just a quick note! The information I found about Branson's heart murmur comes from webmd-looks like Julian Fellowes gave Branson the most "innocent" of heart murmurs. All I can say is, he better not use it as an excuse to...well, he just better not! :o(<em>


	73. A Third Letter to Nowhere

_This chapter is mainly "set up" for what will happen next. Thanks again for the lovely reviews and readership! It's truly encouraging and helps motivate me to dish out more as much as possible! Hope you enjoy._

_Also, just a quick note-as I've mentioned in previous chapters, little is known about Branson's family; I'm sure that when Series 3 airs, everything I've written about his family will instantly be "AU", but that's ok. Anyway, because someone once asked me (and because I mention another member of the Branson family in this chapter) here is *my* vision of the order of Branson siblings: Tom (eldest child and eldest son), Kathleen, Frank, and 3 younger sisters._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seventy-Three<strong>

Dear Martin,

_When it rains, it pours…_

That's what Mrs. Hughes says; when one bad thing happens, it's bound to be followed by many.

Are you aware of what I'm talking about?

I received a letter today, a letter from home. Thank God I had the good sense to wait until I received my medical results before I wrote to them; they still don't know that I was called up, and God help me, they never will. But I received this letter, written by Siobhan of all people.

Siobhan...Lord, she must be…fifteen now? I haven't exchanged many letters with my younger sisters; I still think of them as little girls, I confess. So it was a pleasant surprise to see her writing, but the contents of her letter were quite the opposite.

She told me that Sean is now home, after spending two weeks in a Galway hospital (apparently the hospitals in Dublin are overflowing, and his injuries weren't deemed 'critical enough' to stay there; tell that to his two missing fingers). She also revealed more than Kathleen was willing to tell me, about why Sean enlisted. Apparently, he was "gently pressured", by the soldiers who frequent the pub where he works. Bullied and threatened is more like it. How she knows this? I don't know. Perhaps she overheard Kathleen say something to Mother? It's no wonder, however, that she didn't tell me; she knew how I would react…and the broken work bench in the Downton garage can attest to that.

…The broken work bench.

…

That was the bench where Sybil always sat, back when she would pop in to talk to me while I was working.

Poetic, don't you think? It lies in pieces now…like my heart.

…

…

The truth about Sean's enlistment wasn't the only reason I destroyed that bench. Siobhan also told me about Frank…

…

Honestly, Martin, I don't know who I'm angrier with! My idiot brother, for the trouble he's caused…or my proud Mother, who had no intention of telling me, because she wanted to keep me "safe". SAFE! Safe from what? My anger? My disappointment? Rather, it's to keep Frank safe, because if I could, I would wallop him to next Sunday!

Frank was arrested last week for "drunk and disorderly conduct", according to my sister. And that's not all. Apparently, for the last few weeks, he's been squatting in some slum with his so-called "friends", drinking to excess and God knows what else. Mother confronted him when she learned he had…had lost his job (again), after failing to show up for work for three days straight. The fight resulted in him walking out, and he's been staying with these "mates" of his, ever since. And I knew this would happen; WE ALL KNEW THIS WOULD HAPPEN! They played some prank and Frank was caught; and like any good "friends"—they all ran away, leaving him to take the fall.

God Martin, I…I…I _hate_ myself. I should have been there; I should have…oh God, poor Mother.

She went to the station to bail him out. God knows how much money that cost; I have a feeling the bail for humiliating a British officer is quite high. And…who knows what sort of humiliation she had to face, to get him out of there. Siobhan doesn't go into detail, but…I know it happened, Martin, I know they mocked her and made it as difficult as they could. BASTARDS!

…

…

…I should have listened to you. I should have taken your advice all those years ago. I should have come home.

I know there's no guarantee, but…I'd like to think if I had, none of this would have happened. Frank wouldn't have fallen into the wrong crowd, Sean wouldn't have felt the pressure to enlist, and you…

Maybe you'd still be alive.

…

Or maybe I would have been with you…and you wouldn't have had to die alone…

…

…

…

I'm sorry, Martin, I…I just…

…

Nothing is going as I thought it would. Not even my plans to make a stand against the British Army and the War. And…of course, you know about my failure with…with Sybil.

God, I remember that letter I wrote, earlier this spring. When I had such "renewed hope". I had told you I was breaking my New Year's promise; that I was not going to give up my pursuits to win Sybil's heart and hand. I was so convinced then, that she…that she loved me.

…

…

Of course, you knew better. You've always known better…

…

No, no, that's not the point of this letter (which is a strange thing to say, since it's a letter that literally goes nowhere). No, the reason I write this, Martin, is because…_I think I found a way._

What I mean is, I think I found a way to get back at them, the Army, I mean. I learned a few days ago that some famous general will be coming to the house, along with Mr. Matthew and a few other high ranking officers, to see the convalescent home that Sybil and Mrs. Crawley have created. Mr. Carson, the butler here…well, he's very "traditional", about how things like dinner parties should be handled. In other words, he doesn't believe in having maids (women, to be more precise) in the dining room for such events. But the house has no footmen; and…I quickly realized the opportunity this presented for me.

I went to Mr. Carson today, and offered my services to help with that dinner. I can't deny that…I did feel a twinge of guilt, on his behalf; he was so surprised by my offer, and so relieved as well. But…but _this_…is more important. Avenging you, and making them all see the unjust atrocities that this war, and this government have put upon common people, not just the Irish, but ALL people.

So what do I have in mind? Well…you'll have to wait and see. But keep watch over me, Martin; I'll try to make you proud.

…

…

Right, well…that's all I have to say, really.

…

I just…I hope Mother can forgive me, one day.

…

…

…And…and Sybil, too.

…

Farewell, dear cousin. Be sure to watch over my prison cell.

—Tom


	74. Birth of a Revolution

_We've now come to the infamous "dining room" scene. I remember when I watched this in the show, thinking, "this seems a little out of character"; I know Branson was upset and grieving for what had happened in Ireland, but...really? Dumping slop? And I couldn't stand how the scene ended without a resolution; yes, we knew he wasn't going to be fired, but...something seemed to be missing. So here is my attempt to try and make sense of that scene, as well as bring some resolution to what had happened._

_And just a quick shout out to , who inspired me with something she had said about "how is dumping slop going to show that you're against the War?" EXACTLY! So I dedicate this chapter to her, and once again, THANK YOU ALL for reading and commenting! _

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seventy-Four<strong>

The slam of the cottage door reverberated throughout the tiny house, and if one didn't know any better, they would have sworn an earthquake had struck!

A harsh grunt escaped Branson's lungs; he kicked at the closed door and his hands balled into fists, as if begging to smash something. He was livid; absolutely livid.

_Murderer! Assassin! TROUBLEMAKER!_

His clenched his jaw and felt his teeth grind. The nerve of them all! That they actually thought he was going to…going to…

A string of profanities escaped his lips, and without another thought, he marched across the cottage floor to the small pantry where he kept a bottle of Irish whisky, on the top shelf.

He wanted to get drunk.

No…he wanted to HIT SOMETHING…and then get drunk.

His hands fell upon the wooden chair that was tucked next to his table. He was just about to lift it and smash it against a wall…when he remembered how he had done this once before, just after his Lordship had reprimanded him for what had happened to Sybil at the Count…and he doubted Carson would be so willing to get him a new chair, this time. So instead, he picked up a tin cup that he used for coffee, and threw it as hard as he could against a wall.

It made a loud clang, but that was it. No major damage.

He was breathing heavily, his shoulders rising and falling with each angry breath. Right…well…he had satisfied his urge to hit something. Now it was time to get drunk.

It was only when he reached for the whisky that he realized he was still in the bloody penguin suit. With a snarl, he pulled at the gloves, the tie, tugged at the buttons on the crisp white shirt and waist coat, not caring if he ripped anything. _Let them take it out of my wages; see if I care! _He didn't stop until he was down to his undershirt and trousers. Without another thought, he threw the fine livery purposefully into a rather dirty and dusty corner of the cottage, pulled off the cap to his whisky, and proceeded to down as much of the bottle's contents in one gulp.

Of course he wasn't able to down the entire thing, or even half of it. He had bought the bottle several years ago, when he had gone to Ireland for Kathleen's wedding. He brought it back and stored in the cupboard, saving it for some "special occasion". The liquid was harsh, burning his throat and setting his head on fire. He gasped for air, like a man coming up out of water, when his lips parted from the bottle. The stuff was strong; much stronger than any so-called "Irish whisky" he had found in most English pubs. He had almost forgotten how strong…and how good…_real_ whisky tasted.

He took another deep swig from the bottle, before collapsing into the chair he had been contemplating on destroying just a few seconds ago.

_Of all the rotten luck…_

Who made up that saying, "the luck of the Irish"? Because whoever they were, couldn't have been Irish! In his experience, the Irish were _anything but_ lucky, and he was a living testament to that.

He took another gasp, feeling the fiery contents of the bottle leave scorch marks down his throat. The last time he had drunk whisky with such abandon had been at that random pub, on his way back from York. Then, he had wanted to get drunk to "purify" himself from Sybil's rejection. Now…well, it wasn't so different now, was it? She was still a part of the equation.

"Oh God…" he groaned, running a hand through his hair. He closed his eyes, and suddenly felt the urge to sob. The whisky was clearly doing its job; one minute he wanted to break something, the next he wanted to wallow in his tears. "I'm sorry Martin…" he heard himself gasp after another hearty drink. "I'm so…so sorry…" he groaned, feeling the hot tears escape his eyes. "Oh God…I…I failed you…again…"

He couldn't do anything right, it seemed. He couldn't object to the War on account of his broken heart, and apparently he couldn't dump a bowl of slop onto a general's head.

_That was a stupid idea, Tom,_ his cynicism spat. _It's one thing to think you'll spark a revolution by shouting to a bunch of officers that you refuse to fight; it's quite another to think you'll make any difference by simply spoiling a fine dinner party with a nasty concoction._

Ah yes, his grand scheme. Now, in the "sobering" light of failure, his so-called "brilliant" plan to get back at the Army truly looked…pathetic.

When he wasn't working, he spent his time over the past two days gathering the items he would need; the ink, the oil, a bottle of milk he had purposefully left open to sour in the privy beyond his cottage. The cow-pat was the freshest ingredient, gathered only an hour before the dinner. While Daisy and Mrs. Patmore were checking the store cupboard, he slipped into the kitchen, and quickly switched the soup with his "concoction", praying that no one would curiously lift the lid beforehand.

While he changed into his livery, he overheard William and Daisy talking; the ongoing drama that was their relationship, it seemed. William had finished his training and was visiting Downton before leaving for France. Everyone was pretending how wonderful it would be to see William again, not bothering to pause and think it may be the last time they would see him. Or maybe they just didn't want to dwell on that reality. As he listened to the conversation, he could hear the anxiousness in William's voice; the clear desire to say something to Daisy, or rather…to _ask_ her something.

_Apparently, I'm not the only one who was infatuated with a girl who feels otherwise._

Daisy mumbled some excuse to go and check something in the kitchen, and immediately dashed off before anything could be said…or asked.

He had a right mind to tell William to stop making a fool of himself; love wasn't worth all this trouble. But one look at the young footman, who was sitting at the table and looking down at his folded hands, clearly reciting some practiced words…

Well, he just didn't have the heart. _I'll not be the one to smash his hopes. _It did give him pause to wonder, though. Would he have wanted someone to tell him to stop being a fool about his feelings for Sybil? _You did have someone tell you—you just didn't want to listen to him, and now he's dead and you're a bigger fool than ever before. _

"Fool me once, shame on you…fool me twice, shame on me…" he muttered, before taking another deep drink. Indeed, he had been duped twice by his hopeful heart.

His mind wandered back to earlier, once again. Now that he was dressed for the part, including putting on a false façade of willing servitude, he gathered the "soup", placed it on a tray, and proceeded to take the stairs that would lead to the dining room.

"Everything all right, Mr. Branson?" the housekeeper had asked while he passed her. Clearly he needed to make his façade more convincing.

"I think so, Mrs. Hughes," he replied, not bothering to pause, let alone look her straight in the eye. His mother had always told him he was a terrible liar; one look into his eyes and she would know he was up to something.

He did pause, however, at the base of the staircase. Why? He wasn't quite sure; no one else was around him. It was as if…something were trying to ask him if he really wanted to go through this whole thing.

_Your mother already had to deal with the shame of having one son in prison; are you going to shame her further?_

He ground his teeth and began climbing the stairs.

_This is right, I __need__ to do this. I'm doing this for Martin, for Sean, for every man who's been lied to about the glory and honor of this war. For every man who's been bullied or forced into enlisting. For every woman and child who's lost a brother, a father, a son, a husband; for every man who comes back in pieces, or whose scars are on his soul, like those of Mr. Lang. For Ireland…for her freedom, for her people, for…for me!_

He was in the dining room. The belly of the beast. And the entire lot of them were sitting and talking and laughing pleasantly, dressed in their finest, not taking note of his appearance, nor thinking of the millions beyond that room who were struggling just to live another day.

He moved quickly to the sideboard, and set the "soup" down. _Don't look at her, don't look at her!_ She would be his undoing…like so many other times. He knew, deep in his heart, that if he looked at her, he wouldn't be able to go through with it. A bitter laugh threatened to escape his throat as he thought of the strange situation where the thought of shaming his mother wasn't enough to make him stop…but the thought of disappointing Sybil, was nearly paralyzing.

However, hearing her laugh as she spoke to her cousin…and sweet mercy, he swore he could smell her perfume…that was nearly his undoing right there! _Nearly_…

He glanced over his right shoulder, his eyes finding the general. The stupid sod was grinning at something Sybil had said. That just cut the knife even deeper.

_Right…now's the time. Do it now before you lose your nerve! Do it and then shout your beliefs, for the whole world to hear! DO IT!_

A giant hand slammed down atop his as it gripped the lid to the warming dish.

Branson looked up and stared wide-eyed at Mr. Carson, whose strong grip was keeping his at bay. "NO!" he hissed.

"Yes," Carson hissed back, although in a tone that was much calmer and quieter.

Anna appeared then, her hands moving forward to take the tray from under him, her eyes flying back and forth between himself and the butler, whose grip never loosened.

NO, NO, NO! THIS WASN'T HOW IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE!

Behind him, the general was offering his sympathies to Mr. Matthew, who had just explained that his servant had died of pneumonia. "I don't envy you," General Strutt sighed. "A decent servant can change your war."

How painful those words were. And yet, how true they were—it seemed that Mr. Carson was determined to change the outcome of Branson's own personal war, with the British Army.

_Sybil…_

Why, he wasn't sure. He had convinced himself over and over to not look at her, and was rather amazed that he had managed to hold off on the temptation to do so. But now…with Mr. Carson's hand gripping his own, holding the dish lid down, and with Anna just ready to take it out of his hands as soon as he let go…he looked over his left shoulder, and took in the sight of her.

God, she looked beautiful. It was a brief glance, nothing long and lingering about it, and all he could see was her profile. But she had a lovely profile…perhaps the loveliest of any woman he knew. And while her gown looked very fine, it was her face that had him captivated; the soft glow of her skin, the gentle blush of her cheek, the sparkle he could just make out in her blue-gray eyes, and the memorizing way her pretty pink lips curled into a smile…

And just like that, he knew he was defeated.

He turned his head back, and clenched his jaw, a mad smile teasing the corners of his lips, but it was quickly swallowed down, along with his wounded pride, and he released his hold on the dish.

Carson still kept a firm grip on his wrist, while Anna took hold of the tray, and followed them out of the dining room. As soon as they were in the hall, Branson grunted as he felt the butler twist his arm behind his back, and grip his shoulder with the other hand. "GET DOWN STAIRS, NOW!" he hissed, fighting his own urge to bark and shout.

Branson fought back the temptation to swear, and let Mr. Carson haul him away like a common criminal.

As they descended the stairs, back to the kitchens, Carson's grip became rougher and tighter. He was practically pushing Branson down the stairs, trying to make him go faster, no doubt because he wanted to be a good distance from the dining room before he could really let his thoughts be known.

"All right, all right! There's no need to be so rough!" he had shouted as Mr. Carson continued to push him into the kitchen. The kitchen maids and lads who were standing nearby made themselves scare, or at the very least, moved out of the way to let them through, and proceeded to watch everything from a safe distance.

_Bloody wonderful_, he thought to himself. His failed scheme would provide hours of entertainment for the gossip hounds.

"There's every need—to stop a murder!" Carson accused, as he finally released Branson and pushed him away, looking positively disgusted.

"MURDER? What do you mean, murder?"

And that was when he realized that someone had found his letter.

"Bloody brilliant…" he groaned, taking another deep drink from his whisky bottle.

Ever since he had come up with the idea, to humiliate the general by pouring the slop on his head, he had debated about whether or not he should say something to Sybil. He knew he couldn't tell her face to face…and he doubted she would want to speak to him at all, after the way he had unleashed his fury at her. But…he couldn't bear the thought of…of not seeking her forgiveness for the disappointment he knew he would cause…even though he had no hope of receiving any.

So finally, before he went in search of his cow-pat, he wrote a short letter…and as he went to gather the livery for the evening, he stuck the note in a laundry basket, inside one of Sybil's blouses.

It was just a bit of fabric, and yet it still managed to make his cheeks burn, his fingers tingle, and his imagination wander down a rather forbidden path.

Anna didn't have to wave the letter in his face to prove that she had been the one to discover it. He stared at her with wide, disbelieving eyes, as she accused him—_accused him_—of planning to assassinate the general. He honestly didn't know what hurt more; that they all assumed him capable of such an atrocity as cold-blooded murder? Or that Anna, a woman whom he thought was a good friend, would think so little of him?

As he explained his motives and what the concoction in the dish truly was, he folded his arms and (he was not proud to admit) put on a childish pout, glaring at all of them, especially Anna, as they shot accusatory glares back at him.

_I shouldn't be surprised,_ he thought to himself as he bitterly crossed the drive and yard to his cottage. _They all think revolutionaries are evil bastards! Anna, herself, is convinced that the rebels in Russia are capable of murdering children! Bunch of backwards, simple-minded…_

He took another drink, as if trying to drown the memory, as well as the pain from those glares.

And now, here he sat, under house arrest, just like the Tsar. "Only difference is, in Russia, it's the tyrant under lock and key…whereas at Downton, it's the 'mad Socialist'!" he bitterly spat. "Quick! Stuff a gag into his mouth before he dares say something horrid about our beloved lords and masters!"

He threw his head back and gulped the last of the whisky, not caring that it hurt his throat or made his head dizzy. He gulped it quickly and he gulped it angrily, ignoring the tears that came to his eyes from the harsh taste. Once he was finished, he leaned back in his chair and let out a rather loud and disgusting burp, gripping the edges of the table to keep the room from spinning…and then, reached for a nearby rubbish bin to retch into.

They had accused him of being a murderer, an assassin. They accused him of being a troublemaker. But what they had failed to accuse him of was what he truly was…a sad, pathetic, childish arse; an utter failure, at everything…even holding his own whisky down.

"Oh God…" he groaned, hoping he had heaved his last. His stomach groaned with him; anger and alcohol were never a good combination.

He rested his head on the table, careful to take slow, even breaths. Well, he wasn't going to be arrested…but that didn't mean he was going to have a job after this night_. Just as well,_ he bitterly thought. _You did remind Sybil that you wouldn't always be a chauffeur…and this whole fiasco certainly gave you the opportunity you needed to leave! They would have to be mad to keep you after tonight…_

Yet he didn't want to get up and start packing his things. He didn't think his stomach would allow him to move that much, anyway.

_She's going to hear about it, of course. They all will. Mr. Carson will tell his Lordship, and to make the humiliation worse, Anna will probably give him the letter too, which will naturally bring more questions._ He groaned at the thought. It was bad enough, being let go for something you meant to do but weren't able to pull off. If he were going to be sacked, he'd rather have it be for something he had done than for something he almost got away with. But the thought that chilled him was the position he had just put _Sybil_ in. Her father would turn to her, and ask why she was receiving private messages from the chauffeur. Sybil would also be humiliated in all this, and for that, she would certainly hate him.

_Didn't think that one through, did ya Tom?_ He swore under his breath, and then gripped the bin, feeling his stomach lurch once more.

_No, no, Anna wouldn't do that to her, surely,_ he tried to reassure himself, after the retching had ceased. Despite his present opinions for the head housemaid, he knew that Anna wouldn't betray Sybil, not like that. But Anna had obviously shown the letter to both Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson, and they would feel it was in their duty to report the contents of that note to his Lordship.

_In your selfishness to seek "revenge"—which truly was just a pathetic excuse for a boy to play "revolutionary"—you've not only managed to lose your job and humiliate yourself…but you've also managed to ruin the life of someone you care about! _

"No, not just someone," he found himself saying out loud. "The woman you love."

God help him, he still loved her. He would always love her; no matter how many times his heart broke.

He rose quickly from the table, his legs wobbling so unsteadily, that he nearly fell flat on his face, had he not reached for the table to hold him up. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, before finally straightening himself up, and then took several more deep breaths, before taking a few tentative steps forward.

He needed to find Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes. He needed to…oh God, he hated the thought, but it needed to happen…he needed to beg them to not shame Lady Sybil. He would lie and tell them nothing had happened. And from the perspective of most, nothing _had_ happened—they hadn't touched (not in _that_ way), they hadn't kissed, and he had never attempted to raid her bedchamber, or she his cottage. She knew how he felt about her, yes…but her reputation was safe, because…because she didn't feel the same…despite what he had once believed.

He had finally made it to the cottage door, and had just swung it open, when…lo and behold, stood the very person he had once considered a good friend.

"Anna?"

She looked cross, and her arms were folded across her chest in a rather "matronly" fashion, reminding him of Mrs. Hughes…or his mother, ready to unleash a harsh warning.

"I'm here for the livery," she grumbled, keeping her eyes focused entirely on his ashen-colored face, seemingly ignoring the fact he was "improperly" attired, with only an undershirt covering his chest. But no one would doubt the saintly Anna's reputation—and he knew she was far too proper to enter his cottage without a third person.

"I…" he paused, trying to suppress a drunken burp.

Anna made a face, similar to the one she had made when she had opened the soup pot. "If you would please go and fetch it for me, I can be on my way," she grumbled again, looking very irritated.

Branson groaned as he turned in the direction to where he had thrown it. A hand went to his stomach, and he staggered just a few steps, before quickly rushing to where he had left the bin.

"Oh for heaven's sake!" Anna sighed, her voice filled with exasperation. Despite the rules of polite decorum, she stepped inside the cottage, marched over to the corner where he had thrown the jacket, shirt, waistcoat, and other pieces, and hoisted them up. "You can drop the trousers off in the morning," she muttered, before turning to exit the whisky-scented room.

"Anna, wait…" he called out, his head just barely out visible from the bin.

"I don't have time for this, Mr. Branson—"

"Please, hear me out, as a friend…"

That made her stop. She stood in the doorway, her shoulders tense, and one hand gripping the door, while the other clutched the dirty livery he had carelessly discarded earlier. She took a deep breath, muttered something about "give me patience", before turning to face him, although her hand never let go of the door. "Make it quick," was all she said.

He swallowed the humiliating lump in his throat, and attempted to sit up as straight as possible. "Please…don't…don't bring any shame on Lady Sybil."

Anna's brow furrowed. "Lady Sybil?"

He nodded his head. "My note…please…there's no need…no need to mention it to his Lordship. I don't want to embarrass her."

Anna's mouth was a thin line. "Maybe you should have thought about that beforehand…"

"Aye, maybe I should have," he retorted, not caring for the self-righteous lecture. "But I'm asking you now…please…"

She looked at him for a long moment, and Branson couldn't tell what she was thinking. Her expression remained stern, and her eyes never seemed to lighten. If she wouldn't hear him out, then he was prepared to make a fool of himself to Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson, if need be. Damn his pride; it served him right for his idiocy.

A sigh escaped Anna's lips, and she reached into her apron pocket to pull out the very note that had betrayed his plan. "You mean this, Mr. Branson?" she asked, dropping the note onto the floor before him.

His eyes squinted as he watched the piece of paper fall to the ground.

A _single_ piece of paper.

His note…_his full note_…had in fact been two pieces.

"Fell out while I was putting Lady Sybil's things away," she explained, still frowning.

He looked up at her, his eyes searching hers, trying to see if she were hiding the truth, to see if she did know there had been more than one sheet of paper.

Anna's frown deepened, but more so because of the way he was looking at her. "What? What is it?"

"Nothing," he lied, moving his eyes away quickly. _She doesn't know._ He could tell. Like him, Anna wasn't a very good liar.

Anna looked at him strangely for a while, but then gave a sigh and turned to go. "You should make some coffee; sober yourself up. Don't want Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson to find you in such a state."

"What does it matter?" he bitterly muttered.

Anna shrugged her shoulders. "Matters a great deal if you want to keep this job."

"What?" his voice was full of confusion...as well as surprise. Surely she wasn't saying…

Anna sighed again, and turned once more to face him. "Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson have decided _not_ to say anything to his Lordship." Was it his imagination? Or did he see a tiny smile curl at one corner of her mouth. "After all, none of them are aware that some imbecile tried to pull a prank on a guest," she said rather pointedly, her eyes locking with his own.

Branson felt his face flush, but he didn't say anything to contradict her. Imbecile was perhaps the nicest word that anyone could call him right now.

"Just be sure not to do anything like that again," Anna warned, trying to look stern once again, although she couldn't hide the smile that threatened to show. "Be a shame to throw a job away on something so silly…and even worse to lose friends over such a thing."

He met her gaze and for the first time all evening, felt his own mouth lift into a smile. "Thank you, Anna," he whispered, feeling both humbled, and glad that he hadn't lost a dear friend as he had feared.

She returned the smile, and began to close the door. "Don't forget to bring those trousers tomorrow!"

"Aye, Mother," he joked, but smiled all the same, as she shut the door behind her.

A massive sigh of relief escaped his lungs then. Sybil wasn't going to be humiliated; she wasn't going to get into any trouble because of his stupidity. Anna, and for that matter, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, didn't know about the other half of his note. And amazingly…he still had a job! Things would be tense for a while, that he had no doubt about, but it was better than being sacked, surely?

_And what about your grand ideals for sparking a revolution? What about avenging your cousin? What about taking a stand against the War? Taking a stand for Ireland?_ He frowned at the mocking voice of his self-loathing. _You've gone soft, Tom; you're just a yellow-bellied—_

"Shut it!" he snapped. He bent down (carefully, his stomach was still churning a bit), and picked up the discarded letter, turning it over and re-reading the words he had written only a few hours ago.

_Lady Sybil—forgive me. They'll have arrested me by now, but I'm not sorry—the bastard had it coming to him!_

He shook his head, groaning slightly at the ache. Truly, what had he been thinking? How was pouring slop on the general's head a way of showing that he didn't agree with the War? Anna had likened his plan to that of a prank…the same sort of thing Frank had been arrested for; the same childish behavior he despised in his younger brother. "That's not the way to spark a revolution…" he murmured to himself.

He looked up then, his eyes going to the small bookshelf. Upon which were several dog-eared copies of books written by various authors, both men and women, whose ideals and political thinking he admired greatly. These were the sort of people who inspired change…and they didn't do it by dumping slop onto unsuspecting generals.

"Coffee…" he muttered to himself, and immediately went to the stove to do just as Anna had suggested. A smile began to spread as he set the kettle to boil, pulled out several sheets of paper, a fresh inkwell and pen, and opened one of his books.

"Change will come…" he murmured to himself as he sat down to read and take notes. "And it will start here, in a chauffeur's cottage, at Downton Abbey."


	75. Secrets between Friends

_So I'd like to think that Sybil *did* find out what Branson had been planning to do to General Strutt-she hints that she might have known in episode 4, which we will soon be coming to. But for right now, I hope you enjoy her POV after the incidents of the dining room scene. THANKS FOR READING AND PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT! Feedback = inspiration and motivation! :o)_

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><p><strong>Chapter Seventy-Five<strong>

Sybil nibbled her bottom lip, trying to keep her attention focused entirely on General Strutt as he took his leave, rather than on her father's valet, who was struggling to control his emotions. Her heart went out to the poor man; Lang wasn't the first ex-soldier she had encountered who suffered from shell shock. It was protocol that a majority of the servants be present when important guests arrived or left, but she wished that for once, protocol could have been disregarded, at least for Mr. Lang.

Her attention switched to her cousin, and she smiled at Matthew as he said his goodbyes, but watched closely as he murmured some parting words to his fiancée, and to Mary.

Sybil was troubled. She was still convinced, deep in her heart, that there was…_something_…some "spark" if you will, between her sister and Matthew. And yet, she couldn't deny that it was obvious Matthew cared very deeply for Lavinia.

_Oh if only I could despise her as Granny and Aunt Rosamond do_, she thought to herself. She was well aware that both her aunt and grandmother were up to something and were trying to convince Mary to be a part of whatever scheme they had concocted to tear Matthew and Lavinia apart. Yet tonight, prior to dinner, Sybil had the chance to sit and talk with Lavinia, and she couldn't help but…_like her._

Lavinia seemed very sweet and genuine, and while she perhaps appeared quiet and delicate upon first glance, Sybil was able to see the moral courage and loving strength that the woman possessed, especially when she talked about her father. Sybil couldn't help but smile as she listened to Lavinia's stories. But inside, she felt sad; if only Lavinia weren't in love with the same man that her sister loved.

"Well, I believe that was a success!" her mother whispered into her ear, beaming as they watched the General's car drive away.

"Indeed," Sybil murmured back, trying to match her mother's smile, but still feeling troubled by her concerns for Mary's happiness. _If only Sir Richard were as likable as Lavinia._

The entire company then turned to go back inside. Her mother drifted over to Edith, who was still glowing after the General's praise. Sybil couldn't help but smile at her sister, also feeling glad that not only her hard work had been acknowledged, but that she truly had seemed to have found "her purpose".

"That was strange, wasn't it?"

Sybil looked up to find Mary walking beside her. Her brow furrowed with confusion. "What was?"

Now it was Mary's brow that furrowed. "At dinner, earlier," she explained. Sybil still didn't quite understand what her sister was getting at. "Didn't you notice?"

"Notice what?"

"Oh really, Sybil, you must have noticed, it happened right next to you!"

She wished her sister would just come out and say whatever it was she was hinting at. Mary groaned, rolled her eyes slightly, before leaning closer so her voice wouldn't have to rise above a whisper. "That thing with the soup…that thing with Branson!"

Sybil nearly stumbled at the mention of his name, but managed to keep her footing as well as keep a straight face, despite the blush she could feel raging underneath her skin.

"Oh come now," Mary grabbed Sybil's shoulder to get her stop walking. "You're honestly telling me you didn't notice him?"

Oh she had noticed him. She was even surprised by him! She had no idea that he would be in the dining room, acting as footman. She supposed she shouldn't have been too surprised; Carson would have seen this as a very important dinner, one that demanded, in his mind, to be followed by the strictest protocol, which meant no maids. Had Carson asked Branson to help? Or had Branson volunteered? Whatever the answer, she remembered saying something to the General, who was sitting just across from her—when the dining room door opened, and in he walked, carrying the soup tray.

Sybil's mouth had fallen open at the sight of him.

No doubt Branson would despise her for thinking this, but…she found him very…_fetching_…in his chauffeur's livery. Well, maybe not the hat (it did look a bit silly, in all honesty), but the jacket…she loved how he looked in his deep green jacket. It just…it fitted his form, beautifully. The broad width of his shoulders…the muscular angles of his chest…it seemed to annunciate all the right portions…

But tonight, he wore a different uniform, one that she had never imagined him wearing, but she knew would be burned to her memory from here on after. It was a basic footman's uniform; she had seen both Thomas and William wear them throughout the years; a black dining jacket with tails, a crisp white shirt and waistcoat, white tie, white gloves…and yet…had she ever noticed how well Thomas and William wore such pieces? No, she had not…but she certainly noticed how well something so simple looked on Branson…and how elegant and distinguished he looked, as well.

As he entered the dining room, and as soon as Sybil had managed to overcome her shock at the sight of him, she quickly took a rather long sip of her wine.

"Sybil, are you alright?"

She glanced to her right, where Cousin Isobel sat. "You just look rather flushed my dear," she explained.

"I'm fine," she lied, taking another sip, praying it would cool the burn she could feel in her cheeks…and the tingle she could feel on her skin.

"Sybil? Sybil, are you listening to me?" Mary's voice, which was growing more annoyed by the second, interrupted her memories.

"I…I'm sorry, I…I was just…trying to picture what you had seen…" _Picture it, indeed_, a wicked voice murmured in her head. "I mean, I was trying to remember—"

"What I had said," Mary interrupted, looking quite agitated that she was being forced to repeat herself, "is that Branson had brought in the soup, and looked to be ready to serve us all, when Carson strode across the room and…I don't know, but it looked like he had stopped him."

"Stopped him?" Sybil frowned at this. The truth was, she had noticed Branson entering the room, but she knew she wasn't at liberty to openly…_gape_…at him (nor should she, it would be disrespectful—but Lord, it was tempting!) So to remove the temptation, she more or less "forced" herself to join in the conversation on whatever it was General Strutt was talking about, which was good, since he was across from her and therefore her eyes would have to look that way…as opposed to the broad figure who stood just a few feet away from her, on her left.

"Yes," Mary continued. "I couldn't see much from the angle where I was sitting, but…it did look as if…possibly, Carson's hand came down on Branson's, as if he were trying to keep him from serving the soup."

Sybil's frown only deepened. Now she wished she had allowed herself to look over at him. "I'm sorry, Mary, I didn't notice."

"Clearly," Mary groaned. "You did seem to be rather engrossed, shall we say, with General Strutt."

A nervous smile lifted slightly at Sybil's lips. _Oh Mary, if you really knew…_

"I can't believe you didn't notice how Carson seemed to just…drag Branson out of there," Mary explained, looking at Sybil with disappointment. "He told Papa that it was because Branson had taken ill, but…something doesn't seem right; it's as if he were hiding something."

"Branson?"

"Carson!" Mary hissed, looking most irritated. But her eyes narrowed a bit, as if she were considering what Sybil had said.

Sybil's face paled at the thought that she may have said something to get Branson into trouble. "I'm sure it's nothing," she attempted to reassure. "Maybe…maybe Branson looked like he was going to be ill…and Carson reacted as you saw, to make sure he didn't harm the soup?" It was a weak excuse, Sybil knew, but she needed to lead Mary off this trail before she tried to snoop further. Mary was very good at solving puzzles and mysteries—Sherlock Holmes in female form.

"Hmmmm…" Mary murmured, considering Sybil's words. "I just wish you had noticed—I can't believe that you didn't! It was happening just next to you!"

"What was happening?" Both sisters turned to Edith, who had appeared next to them, holding a cup of tea and still looking dazzled by General Strutt's compliment. In fact, from the way she was smiling at Mary, Sybil would say Edith looked down right…smug.

"Nothing that concerns you," Mary grumbled, before turning and walking directly towards Lavinia and Cousin Isobel, looking for any excuse to avoid listening to Edith rattle on about how she was the favorite amongst all the officers.

"Well, I suppose she's jealous," Edith sighed, turning her smug and dazzling smile to her youngest sister. "Now, what were you talking about?"

"Nothing of importance," Sybil quickly explained, before turning the conversation back towards Edith. "You were wonderful tonight, by the way! How you were able to explain things to the General, and the knowledge you had of the patients. Perhaps you should consider a career in nursing?"

"A career?" Edith repeated, before laughing. "Oh Sybil, really!" However, amidst her giggles, she did seem to pause for a moment to let the words wash over her.

Sybil excused herself shortly after; she had an early shift in the morning, so leaving to get some sleep was the perfect excuse. She was in her room for no more than two minutes, when Anna came knocking. "Do you need some help in changing, milady?"

Sybil gave a grateful smile. "Yes, actually; I can change in and out of my uniform just fine, but gowns like these…" she sighed, feeling rather helpless.

"I think anyone would need help in a gown as fine as this," Anna grinned, as she began undoing the buttons in the back.

While Anna worked, Sybil chewed once more on her bottom lip, her thoughts going back to the dining room. She did remember seeing Branson leave, with Carson and Anna close behind, but she was so worried about being obvious in looking at him, that she perhaps had tried a little too hard, in making sure that she didn't. She couldn't help but ponder what Mary had said, either. _"…something doesn't seem right; it's as if he were hiding something."_

"Anna?"

"Yes, milady?" Anna answered, not looking up as she began to undo the laces at Sybil's corset.

"Mary…noticed something, this evening."

Anna lifted her head then, and Sybil could see the maid's reflection in her dressing mirror. She looked confused, but at the same time…she looked worried as well. "Noticed something, milady?"

"Yes," Sybil continued. "She thought it seemed rather…strange, I suppose…that Branson, who had brought in the soup…just, suddenly disappeared, with Carson."

Sybil watched Anna's reaction as she spoke. The head housemaid's face paled, ever so slightly, and then she quickly lowered her gaze back to the task at hand. "Mr. Branson took ill, is all; it's just as Mr. Carson said. Besides, it did feel more appropriate to have William there this evening, wouldn't you agree?"

_She's trying to distract me,_ Sybil realized. They were the same tactics she herself had used on both her sisters this evening. "Anna…" Sybil turned around to face her friend, and Anna found herself shifting rather uncomfortably from one foot to the other, her eyes trying to look anymore but into Sybil's. "…Did something happen?"

"Nothing to concern yourself with, milady—"

"Anna, please," Sybil interrupted, reaching out and taking hold of Anna's hands, which caused the housemaid to reluctantly lift her eyes back to Sybil's. "You can tell me. You know better than anyone that I would be the last person to want to get Branson—or anyone—" she quickly added, "into trouble."

Her eyes looked deeply into Anna's, almost imploringly, and Anna gave in, releasing what sounded like an exasperated sigh, before speaking. "Mr. Branson…was planning on…on humiliating the General."

Sybil had no idea what she expected Anna to say, but this was certainly not it. She stared, wide-eyed and open-mouthed in utter shock as Anna's words washed over her. "Humiliate him?" she gasped, thinking how not so long ago, General Strutt was sitting right across from her, laughing and smiling, completely unaware that the substitute footman who was standing just to her left, was planning on doing something horrendous. Good God in heaven, what had he been planning? "How?" she asked, although if truth be told, she wasn't completely sure she wanted to know.

Anna rolled her eyes, looking extremely irritated. "The soup dish," she groaned. "It wasn't soup, milady. It…well, it was something disgusting, that's all you need to know," she explained, a disgusted look falling over her face at the memory. "Mr. Branson had planned on…dumping…the contents of that pot onto the General's head."

Sybil stared at Anna in utter silence—which was suddenly broken by a single bark of mad laughter, causing Sybil to throw her hand across her mouth and Anna to practically jump from surprise.

_ "If I don't get them one way, I'll get them another."_

Well, he had certainly been true to his word. She just had no idea that he would attempt to do something…_like this._

"Thank God you stopped him," Sybil murmured, still in utter shock by the revelation. She lifted her eyes to Anna's, her brow furrowed with confusion. "How…how _did_ you know?"

Anna's discomfort from before was nothing compared to how it was now. However, she didn't try to hide anything this time. "Mr. Branson had written a note…" she began. "A note…to you."

Sybil's eyes went wide in surprise. "Me?"

Anna nodded her head. "He must have slipped into the laundry, when he went to fetch the footman's livery."

For some reason, this piece of news had Sybil blushing. Branson had touched her garments; he knew what was hers, and slipped a note within them! She immediately chastised herself for being so…light-headed, over such a thing.

"I found the note while putting your things away," Anna went on. "He didn't go into specifics; just…said that by the time you found the letter and read it, he would have been arrested."

Sybil couldn't help but groan. She clearly understood Anna's irritation, because she herself was feeling quite irritated. Of all the stupid, idiotic, brainless things! How could he stand before her and argue with her about whether or not joining the army was throwing away one's life…when _this_ was the path he had apparently chosen? Playing pranks? She didn't like the idea of him going to prison in general, but at least the stance of a conscientious objector sounded far nobler than…than hooliganism!

"Honestly," she hissed, her voice filled with annoyance. She turned back to Anna, feeling both incredible fury as well as confusion. "Why…why on earth would he leave a note like that?" It made no sense! Was it his way of…of teasing her, because she was glad that he couldn't fulfill his original plan to object? It was a horrid thought, because she didn't want to think he was capable of being cruel like that.

Anna sighed. "That wasn't all the letter said, milady."

Sybil closed her eyes and summoned her patience. Good grief, what else had he said?

"He asked…he asked for your forgiveness, milady."

Sybil's eyes flew open and she looked at Anna in surprise. "_My_ forgiveness?"

Anna nodded her head. "Even though he said he wasn't sorry for what he was planning on doing…he did ask that you forgive him. I…I think that was why he left you the letter; I won't argue and say that what he was planning on doing wasn't stupid, but…I think he wanted you to…to at least know that…that he was sorry, for disappointing you."

Sybil didn't know what to say. She honestly didn't know what to think, either. "Do you still have the letter?"

Anna looked down. "No, milady."

Sybil bit her lip; she was afraid to ask the next question, but she needed to know for certain. "Have you told anyone else?"

Anna lifted her eyes and shook her head. "No, milady."

Sybil was surprised by this revelation…and, if truth be told, a little relieved. _Although it serves him right if he were sacked! If I could, I would march to his cottage right now, and—_

"Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes…decided not to say anything; just give Mr. Branson a warning," Anna explained. "After all, no harm was done in the end."

Sybil nodded her head in agreement, but was still surprised. She couldn't imagine Carson letting anyone get away with something like that, even if they hadn't succeeded. The shame it would bring upon the house if he had!

But he _hadn't_, she reminded herself. And that was how Carson and Mrs. Hughes were seeing it. If they went ahead and revealed what Branson had intended, then there would be no escaping that shame. A perfectly wonderful evening, ruined. But to ignore it, and pretend it hadn't happened…well, ignorance is bliss, as it was often said.

"Thank you, Anna," Sybil whispered. "For telling me the truth," she reached out and took one of Anna's hands and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "I promise you, I won't breathe a word."

Anna smiled and squeezed her hand back. "I know, milady."

Anna finished helping Sybil change out of her dress in silence. As soon as Anna was gone, Sybil went to her desk and picked up her diary, ready to unleash her frustrations upon the paper. How could he? How could he think that…that something as _childish_ as this…? She groaned and pushed herself away from the desk. She couldn't sit still, she was just too…too angry to sit still and write! As she had done a few nights before, she got up and began pacing around the room, wanting to shout or hit something, but knowing that she couldn't, for fear that it would bring unwanted attention from a maid or family member. Instead, she marched over to her window and threw it open, needing to get some fresh air before the temptation to scream overcame her.

It was quite a windy evening. She judged by a smell in the air that rain was on its way. Several great gusts came up and whipped through her room, causing the curtains to fly out and send a few opened letters that she had recently received from Susan and Gwen to blow off her desk and towards her bed.

Sybil groaned and shut the window, before turning to her bed to retrieve the letters. Had one flown underneath? She bent down to scoop them up…but paused, as she saw a piece of paper, barely visible, sticking out from beneath the bed skirt.

"What on earth…?" she picked the paper up, her brow creased in confusion. Had there been a third letter on her desk? She turned it over to see who it was from…and let out a gasp as she recognized Branson's handwriting.

_But…but Anna told me that she no longer had the letter!_ However, Anna had also told her that that letter had simply explained why he had been arrested, had his plan been carried out. And this letter said nothing of the sort. What it did say, was this:

_...I needed to do this. I regret nothing…save for one thing: I am sorry for how I spoke to you that day. I shouldn't have raised my voice, nor should I have taken my anger out on you. I don't blame you nor do I despise you __or__ your heritage. _

_ But no doubt you will despise me after this night, and for that, I am also sorry. But know that despite that, I will go to prison with my head held high, filled only with good memories of my time at Downton Abbey; all of which are because of you._

He hadn't signed it; perhaps he was hoping that no one would be able to connect it to him, if it were found by anyone else? Apparently Anna recognized his handwriting…but apparently she was unaware of this page to his letter.

Sybil stared at the letter once more, her heart aching and her fingers shaking.

She didn't know what to say or think. She was still upset with him, yes, but…at the same time she was also moved by his words.

"Oh Tom…" she sighed and refolded the letter, hiding it between some pages in her diary. Despite everything that was on her mind, she wouldn't be writing tonight. Instead, she turned off the light and climbed under her sheets, her eyes fixed on the dark ceiling, and her head swimming with a million thoughts.

She would speak with him soon; she would confront him and reveal that she knew what he had been planning, and no matter how hard she tried, she knew she would not be able to keep her anger at bay. She didn't want him to throw away his life! He was one of the cleverest people she knew, and he had so much to offer the world. "Perhaps that's where I start?" she whispered to herself in the darkness. She loved him, she hated the thought of him not being there, and if she could have her way, he would never leave. But just as Branson needed to "grow up" from his childish belief that he could make a stand by pouring some horrible concoction on the General's head…so too did she need to grow up.

_He said he __needed__ to do this. He's looking for a way to change things. After everything that's happened to his family, after everything that's happened in this war, he's desperate to do something—just as I was desperate to make a difference last November…_

She could understand that feeling. And…she _could_ set aside her selfish desires, and support it.

"Yes," she whispered. "I can at least do that."

She couldn't tell him that she loved him. She couldn't encourage him in any way at all…but…perhaps she could _show_ him how deeply she cared, by willingly supporting and helping him achieve his dreams in politics…_even_ if that meant letting him go.

Despite the tears that were streaming down her cheeks at the thought of him leaving, she did manage to smile. "Yes," she repeated again. "I can at least do that."


	76. A Fourth Letter to Nowhere

_Originally, I was going to end "Part III" of this Volume with the last chapter, where Sybil learns about Branson's plan and finds his note. However, I realized that in order to "true closure" to that incident, she needed to confront him in some way, thus offering an opportunity to transition into the next phase of their story...and thus THIS chapter was born!_

_Also, like Branson, I too debated on whether this transitional chapter should be either a journal entry, or a letter to Martin. After much umming and awwing, I finally settled on making it yet another "letter to nowhere", but I'm *very* pleased with how it turned out and the direction this chapter went. I hope you will agree!_

_So once again, THANK YOU for reading, favoriting, subscribing, and commenting! ENJOY!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Seventy-Six<strong>

Dear Martin,

Didn't think I would be writing to you so soon, but…here I am. I actually debated if what I was going to write was worthy to be written to you, as opposed to my journal. Well, you can see which side won that debate. And in all honesty…I need to ask you for your forgiveness.

In some ways, it's strange; writing to you like this, I mean. (Alright, it's strange in many ways, I suppose), but what I mean is…you already know everything that's happened. You know the plan I had to…to "avenge" you and to take a stand; you know how I tried to carry out that plan…and how I failed.

Were you disappointed in me? I was. I was disappointed in my failed attempt…and then disappointed in my choice of "getting attention". Anna referred to it as a "childish prank"—and in the sobering light of day I have to admit that she's right. So Martin, when I say I need to ask for your forgiveness, it isn't because I failed in humiliating the General…but because I…I had thought something so…pitiful and pathetic…was worthy of avenging your spirit. I truly am ashamed of myself…I hope and pray that you can forgive me for that.

Do you think I've gone soft? That small voice, which lives within all of my doubts, does. I try to ignore it as best I can, but it can be hard at times. One way I have discovered to drown it out, as well as to help make me feel useful, is by reading. I've decided to go through all of my books, re-read them and take notes, then compare my findings with what I discover in the newspaper. There's so much change happening in the world, Martin, and not just in politics; economic change, religious reform, adjustments in education and worker rights—the 20th century is truly experiencing a whirlwind of ideas, and…I want to be a part of that. I _need_ to be a part of that. So this is how I'll start, by educating myself, coming to a better understanding on what I believe and how all these changes and ideas can work and move in the world, thus creating a better one for _all_ people, not just the wealthy and the titled.

And perhaps in the midst of those pages, I'll find a way to honor your name, and bring freedom and hope to all who face oppression and injustice, not just our people, but all people, everywhere.

…

…

I'm sorry, I'm just…it sounds strange, but…I'm actually feeling a bit…"giddy" about the whole thing! Despite everything that happened last night, and the days prior, I woke up this morning actually feeling…good.

That feeling was momentarily interrupted when I was summoned to come before Mr. Carson; even though Anna had revealed to me that they were planning on keeping me around, I knew I would still have to face an official "telling off", which I most certainly did. But Mr. Carson is a fair man, I will say that. He never really raised his voice, he never called me names or belittled me in any way; he just looked at me with stern eyes and spoke to me a low voice, filled with icy warning. And I, if you can believe it, kept my mouth shut and simply nodded my head in understanding. I would be suspended a day's wages, but…I suppose that's fair. I don't like it, trust me, but…I can't deny that I do feel bad for having led him on, volunteering as I did to help with the dinner. No doubt he would have docked me a week's wages if William hadn't been there to step in and keep things calm.

Once Mr. Carson had said his peace, I was dismissed and went directly to the garage, not bothering to sit and read the paper in the Servant's Hall, not this morning. Enduring Mr. Carson's warning is one thing; enduring all the looks from my fellow staff is another. I'm sure I provided a good tale for them all—let's just hope it doesn't reach Miss O'Brien's ears; that will surely be the end of me.

I've spent most of my day here, either in the garage or in the cottage. I've taken all of my meals here, which is fine; gives me an opportunity to read and write more. I won't become a hermit, don't worry, but I think I'll wait a few days for things to cool down, before I attempt to rejoin my fellow workers.

…

Yet all was not peaceful.

I can't say that I was entirely surprised by her sudden arrival; she has an uncanny way of just…appearing…and knowing things. But I also can't say I was expecting her. I was in the midst of polishing the bonnet on his Lordship's Rolls-Royce, when I heard a rather exasperated huff from behind my left shoulder, and no sooner had I turned around, I felt the hard whack of her fist against my chest.

Don't fool yourself, Martin; just because she's a woman doesn't mean she can't pack a punch! The blow actually caused me to stagger backwards into the car!

Once I had gotten over the shock of the "greeting", she chose to unleash her fury at me. She called me an idiot (and several other things that I've never heard her say before—I blame the presence of all these officers for her "advanced vocabulary"), and more or less repeated what I already know, that my plan to humiliate the General was nothing more than a desperate attempt to seek attention, rather than a true and "honorable" protest. She also shouted that you, dear cousin, would be ashamed of me…and you what? I think she's right.

I think I surprised her when I didn't even try to contradict anything she had said. I could tell that she was aching for a fight…and didn't know what to make of the situation when I didn't bother to rise to the challenge.

All I asked was, "When did you find out?" To which she told me, sometime last night. I'm sure it was Anna, although Sybil wouldn't reveal who. I can't imagine Mr. Carson or Mrs. Hughes saying anything, nor anyone else really, not even Ethel.

Despite her anger and despite the recent tenseness between the two of us, I…I still feel that I can trust her. I know that she won't go and reveal anything (after all, she still hasn't revealed my proposal to anyone). But I do wonder if she'll ever reveal that she found the second page to my note? I don't mean reveal to others, but…to me. Will she ever tell me that she found it? Or is it still lost somewhere in her room? I tried to read her face, to see if a look in her eyes would give anything away…but I didn't want to make it obvious that I was staring for fear that she would pop me once more with her fist.

When she had calmed down, she asked me to promise her to never again do what I tried to do last night. But the truth is…I couldn't promise her that. A part of me wanted to, very much, especially if it would make her happy. But another part of me, the more stubborn and bull-headed part of me, refused to make such a promise. I'm not sure why, exactly; perhaps it's because I know how I can get sometimes, overcome with what I feel is "righteous indignation", and like last night, just fail to see the larger picture and react more with emotion, than with careful calculation. Or, perhaps I couldn't make that promise because, if truth be told, I am still upset with her—for how she avoided me all those weeks ago, as well as…as well as denying what…what I feel she knows to be true.

I know, I know. Here we go again. If it helps, know that I'm being much more cautious this time. After what's happened—_twice_—it's safe to say that I've built a rather hard barrier around my heart. And it will take some…proof, perhaps…on her part, to help remove that barrier. What I mean is…I'm going to hold back in my pursuit. _She's_ going to have to do some of the "chasing" this time. I know that sounds very cock-sure on my part, but…at least by taking a step back and giving her the room to take that step forward, if she truly wants to…well, at least then I'll know the truth. Am I really just a mad, love-sick fool? Or…am I right? _Does she_ feel the same for me as I feel for her…but is just afraid to admit it?

As I said, I do think I surprised her when I didn't rise to the challenge and argue with her. I merely murmured an apology for upsetting her, and then turned back to my work.

Alright, I can't help it, I must admit that while I had my back to her, I did smile—I could just imagine her mouth hanging open with shock, and her brow creased in such a way, feeling rather indignant that I had nothing more to say on the matter.

I expected her to turn and walk away then with a bit of a huff, but to my surprise, she lingered.

She asked me what had become of the bench—the very same bench that not so long ago I had destroyed in a rage, after learning about Sean being bullied into enlisting for the army. I didn't lie…_entirely_. I just said I broke it…without explaining the reason. She pursed her lips then (I could see her reflection on the newly polished bonnet), and then with a sigh, walked over to the car, and much to my surprise, proceeded to get in!

I asked her what she was doing, and she looked at me as if I were mad for asking such a question, and simply answered, "Sitting down". Well…I can't argue that she wasn't direct!

And then she truly surprised me. And perhaps this will surprise you, as well. She asked me…to tell her about _you_.

I was completely taken aback, Martin. This was totally unexpected. But she didn't push or whine or plead; she simply sat there, her hands neatly folded on her lap, and waited.

And…this is where I also need your forgiveness, Martin.

Because…I _did_ tell her about you.

Not _everything_, mind you; I'll never reveal _all_ your secrets, but…something inside me was gnawing at me to answer her question. At first I assumed she wanted to know about what had happened to you, during the Rising, but she clarified and said she wanted to know about…_you_. Not just some tragic event that took you, but…about you, and the life you had lived.

And…I must confess, for the first time in…I don't know how long to be honest—perhaps since before your death…I felt that you were _alive_. Not buried somewhere in a family plot outside Dublin, but…living and breathing in the world around me. Living and breathing right there, in the Downton garage.

…

I hope I didn't overstep my boundaries. I hope that you didn't mind. As I said, I didn't tell her everything, including how you felt about my feelings for her, but…I told her about our childhoods, the scrapes we got into, our love for cars, how I was the better fighter but you were the better plotter (and my sad attempt to humiliate the General can be a testament to that!) I…I did tell her about your work in Devon…and about Rachel. I told her how you wanted me to come home with you, and how we had argued when I chose to stay. I didn't tell her why I had made that choice, but I don't think I needed to; she knows enough. And I finished, by telling her about the flat you had gotten in Dublin…and how I was sad to not have been there to help you move in.

…

…

No, that's not true. I mean, I was sad I couldn't have been there to help you move in. But I didn't finish with that story…

I…I finished by telling her what I had—_have_, really—been feeling as of late.

I told her…that I wish I had been there, with you, on North King's Street that day. Perhaps I could have pushed you to safety? Perhaps I would have known a place to hide, or a shortcut to take? Perhaps I could have distracted the soldiers, giving you a chance to run.

…Or perhaps…I could have died with you. At least then you wouldn't have been alone.

…

…

…

I didn't realize I was crying until I felt her hand on my shoulder. She didn't say anything; she didn't try to contradict me or make me take my words back. She just touched my shoulder, while I used a rag to wipe my face.

…And then she thanked me. And then she left.

…

…

…

I often destroy these letters, when I finish writing them. They have no place to go, and usually they contain information that even I feel is too intimate to be written about in my journal.

…

But I'm not going to destroy this one.

I will fold it, and tuck it inside my journal for safe-keeping. I don't know if I'll ever reopen it and re-read it, but…I don't want to get rid of it. I hope that's alright with you.

…

…

I miss you, Martin. More than you could know.

In my last letter, I told you that I hoped to make you proud. I still do hope that, even if my actions have changed. Perhaps this time, I truly will make you proud…somehow.

Love and God bless,

—Tom


	77. Sybil's Diary XX

_So I realized that there is this BIG gap between episodes 3 & 4 of Season 2; episode 3 is July 1917, and then in episode 4 it jumps to early 1918. While watching episode 4, I realized there were a few references Branson and Sybil made to one another that didn't make a lot of sense without the understanding that "something" must have happened or taken place during those missing months. So that is what this next part of my story will cover; the next 3 chapters will be dedicated to those "missing months", paving the way forward to the events of episode 4. Hopefully, it will come across as "canon" as possible!_

_THANKS AGAIN for all the great comments and thank you to all the new readers who have favorited and/or following this story! Please leave feedback if you can! AND...**a big shout out to history_lady_24**, whose wonderful story **"A Moment in the Library"** inspired me to create a little library scene in this chapter (it is different, I swear!)_

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><p><strong>Volume II, Part IV<strong>

"_The Missing Months" _

_(Autumn – Christmastide, 1917) _

**Chapter Seventy-Seven**

September 16, 1917

It's amazing what you discover! How something you've encountered, or in my case, read over and over, can take on a completely new meaning.

Does that make sense? What I mean is…I discovered today that Edith Nesbit, who wrote The Story of the Treasure Seekers (one of my favorite books from childhood), is a socialist! Apparently she was one of the founders of the Fabian Society, who I have heard about, but haven't had the opportunity to read any of their work…at least not yet. (Branson told me he will find me some pamphlets).

It was Branson who told me that, about Edith Nesbit. I actually came across him in the library, while on my rounds. He was getting another book (of course) and looked up at me as I passed, smiling that cheeky grin of his which…I must confess, still manages to make my legs feel like jelly.

He said, "So it started at a young age, I see!" which confused me, so I asked him what he meant. He then took the very old copy of The Story of the Treasure Seekers off the shelf, (I didn't even realize we still had it! It looked like it might crumble in his hands from how worn it appeared!) and proceeded to open it to the title page, where he read out loud, _"to Sybil, our own little treasure"._

I'm sure I turned a dark shade of crimson; he looked up at me after he read those words, and the way his eyes and smile shown…

…

…

Well…all I can say is I'm glad I was near a table; I found I needed to hold onto something to keep my balance.

That was when he told me about Edith Nesbit and her political leanings. I was astonished, and told him I had no idea, to which he chuckled, saying he wasn't surprised; "It's not the sort of thing a governess to the Earl of Grantham would teach her young charges." I couldn't help but laugh in agreement.

He began to tell me a little more about Edith Nesbit and the work she has done with her husband and the Fabian Society. I…I must admit, I find that very…intriguing…about how she and her husband work together, as a couple, in the world of politics and reform…

…

Branson's been visiting Papa's library a great deal, it seems. I mean, he's always been a frequent visitor, and he probably takes out more books than anyone else on staff, if I read the ledger correctly. But…I have noticed that…ever since this summer, he's been going there and borrowing books quite regularly. At least twice a week, if not more!

I…I can't deny that…I have been checking. The ledger I mean! Not…not the library, I mean, it's not as if I go into the library _every day_…or…or linger there, during my rounds…

But yes, I have noticed his name on the ledger, and I have noticed that a majority of the books he has been taking lie somewhere in the realm of history, philosophy…and the occasional novel. Although, I'm sure, knowing Branson, he's not reading the novel just to enjoy it "as a novel", but looking for some kind of deeper, underlying meaning, that he can argue or equate to something he's read in the world of politics. He even asked me last week if he could borrow my own copy of North and South, as the copy Papa keeps has been leant to one of the officers. He said he wanted to compare Gaskell's portrayal of the unions with a book he borrowed on the Industrial Revolution.

He certainly seems to have found a way to keep himself occupied! I suppose I don't have to worry anymore, about him trying to pull some horrid stunt like he tried this past summer. When he's not working in the garage, he's reading…or scribbling notes. Or both. Anna even told me there are some days when she doesn't see him at all, because he keeps to himself in the cottage, reading and writing while taking his meals.

But he does seem…happy, I must say. Or at the very least…content.

Some days, when I have an entire shift at the house, I sneak down to the garage during my breaks, curious to see what he's up to. Sometimes I find him working…and other times, I find him leaning against a car, leafing through a book, and making various "humming" sounds as he reads.

…Sometimes, I find myself watching his mouth…as he silently whispers the words to himself…

…

…

The visits are never long (twenty minutes at most), but…I enjoy hearing him tell me about whoever or whatever he is reading, and listening to him describe the book. Sometimes he'll say, "Sybil! You won't believe this! Listen to this!" And other times, he'll roll his eyes and groan in frustration, before proceeding to say, "They have no idea what they're talking about!" It can be quite amusing, I must admit!

The old work bench has finally been fixed, despite the fact that I've gotten used to sitting in one of Papa's cars, when I visit. Oh Lord, I remember how one day, I was leaning on the steering wheel, listening as he told me about the socialist philosophies of Oscar Wilde, and I was so wrapped up in his voice, both his words and…and how he sounded…that I leaned a little _too_ close and accidently honked the horn!

That made him jump! I nearly fell out of the car in hysterics! I think that was when he realized he needed to get the bench fixed—although I still prefer to sit in the car!

Indeed, things seem…better now. The tension that was brewing during the summer has certainly lessened.

…

…

Although he STILL refuses to promise me to not put on anymore protests. It's infuriating! I mean, I just…I don't understand why on earth he's being, so…so…stubborn!

Last week, when I brought him my copy of North and South, I thought to bring it "casually" into the conversation, and mentioned how "with all the time you're taking with reading and writing, I don't suppose you'll find the time to put on another protest, will you?"

And what was his response? He laughed at me! Looked up from the book I had handed to him, his face blank…and then he just burst out laughing! And when I tried to confront him about "what's so funny?" he just laughed some more! Oh he's insufferable! I marched out of there with my head held high and haven't been back since…

Although I suppose I broke my own protest by speaking with him in the library today.

…

No, _I_ didn't break my protest; _HE_ initiated the question, I just…

…

…

Oh sod it.

Men! They can just be the most…_intolerable_ creatures, sometimes—no, _all of the time!_

…

…

I must confess though; I do sometimes find that…that I envy him. Having that freedom to read, to study, to explore new ideas. It reminds me of my time in York, when I was attending the college. I would love to go back, someday, and just…continue pursuing knowledge as a…well, as a "normal" university student! My two months there merely whetted my appetite; I'm hungry for more! Oh, and all this nonsense that the only point for a woman to go to university is to find a husband—utter tripe, in my opinion!

…

I wonder what Branson writes about? I am curious, and there have been a few times where I have been tempted to ask him what he hopes to do with all these notes that he's been taking...

…

…

Is it possible that he's planning to…return to Ireland? To get involved in the political changes, there?

…

I did say to myself that I would support and encourage him in any way that I can, to not let my selfishness get the better of me; if he feels so passionately about Ireland's fight for freedom and bringing social reform to the working classes…well, I promised myself that I wouldn't get in his way, that I wouldn't try to stop him.

…

But it's a hard promise to keep.

So…I must confess…that's…that's one of the reasons, why I haven't asked him about his notes, or commented very much on his recent reading frenzy. I would like to think that…because things seem better now, between the two of us…that he would at least have the decency to tell me, if he were planning on going. I just hope and pray that he will tell me, and that I won't learn about it through Papa.

…

…

Right…well…

…

Dr. Clarkson announced yesterday, while I was at the hospital, that we may begin receiving patients from outside Britain. He also said that if there's room, the officers from these countries may come and stay at our convalescent home. I mentioned it last night at dinner, and Granny's fork clattered loudly against her plate. She then demanded to know "what countries" these men would be hailing from, and I told her it would most likely be places within the Commonwealth, such as Canada. She made a small sigh of relief then, muttering something about Americans, which was _not_ lost on Mama.

There certainly has been in an increase in the number of officers we have received; I suppose word from General Strutt's tour has spread near and far, and apparently some men from hospitals outside of Downton are actually writing requests, to find out if it's possible for them to come and stay here!

Of course Cousin Isobel says we must nip this in the bud. She's very insistent that we follow hospital regulations; so insistent, that she has written up schedules for the Downton staff to match those of the hospital staff…which means she's trying to, _once again_, overrule Mama's authority.

…This will only end badly.

I do wish that both Cousin Isobel and Mama could truly _work __together_, as Dr. Clarkson suggested during General Strutt's visit. It is exhausting, having to now and then play referee between the two of them; almost as exhausting as playing referee between Mary and Edith!

Speaking of which, Edith truly has taken her role as "D.C.H.M." (Downton Convalescent Home Manager—my own special title) to heart. All of the officers truly adore her, and I've never heard anyone say a negative word! Not even Cousin Isobel.

As for Mary, she spends her time traveling back and forth between Downton and London, visiting Sir Richard Carlisle. Mama wonders if we should be expecting word about a proposal in the near future. Mary, however, refuses to reveal anything, and simply gives a small, mollifying smile to appease our mother.

I can't deny; this bothers me. I know Mary has always been very reserved when it comes to her emotions, but…at the same time, I would think that if you're seriously considering spending the rest of your life with someone, you should look as if you feel…some sort of joy! Oh Mary…

Matthew writes whenever he can, but all of his letters are addressed to Cousin Isobel, who is more than kind to share their contents with us. Sometimes he'll include a small note for Papa, but little else. Nothing specifically addressed to Mary. It almost reminds me of how it was when the War started; not only do we see so little of him, now we hear so little of him, too.

…

It's strange, really. Was I wrong? I thought surely both Mary and Matthew still felt…_something_…towards each other. But after his visit this summer, after seeing him with Lavinia, and now after this period of silence, I find myself wondering…am I poor judge when it comes to love?

…

…

Granny would certainly think so. She would say I have _very_ poor judgment when it comes to love…especially my own.

…Which is why I must be satisfied with how things are. And smile when I imagine him doing great things to change the world…while I watch from afar, and fight the urge to cry.

* * *

><p><em>For the history fans! (via Wikipedia)-Edith Nesbit was a famous children's author in the late 19thearly 20th century, who along with her husband and several friends, help start the "Fabian Society", a socialist organization that was a precursor to today's Labor Party in Great Britain. The book mentioned in this chapter, The Story of the Treasure Seekers, was published in 1899 and was a very successful children's novel. Her work in fiction would go on to inspire other great children's authors, including C.S. Lewis and J.K. Rowling._

_...And did anyone catch that I set the diary date to when Series 3 premieres in the UK? SO JEALOUS! :oP_


	78. Gossiping with Gwen

_Hello! We continue journeying through "the missing months" between episodes 3 & 4 of S2 with this chapter, which was more or less an excuse to have Gwen and her family shown in the story. It was also a great way to talk about all the events happening downstairs, as well as set up some possible tension for future chapters._

_THANK YOU AGAIN, everyone who has read, commented, favorited, and subscribed to this story! I'm so happy so many people are following and enjoying it, and I hope you enjoy this chapter too. It is long, but just when I thought I had found a stopping point, I realized I needed to reference this, or reference that, and...well, here it is. Thanks again and let me know what you think!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Seventy-Eight<strong>

A gurgle escaped the lips of the smiling baby, which then quickly turned into a giggling squeal as Branson lifted the child high over his head, all the while making silly faces for the boy's delight.

The child's mother was sitting nearby, grinning as she watched her son play with his "uncle". "Tom, you truly are a natural," Gwen complimented as she bounced her daughter on her knee. The little girl was also grinning as she took in the sight of her twin brother being lifted and swung high overhead.

Branson returned Gwen's smile. "It comes from being the eldest of six," he explained. "I was expected to 'do my part', from changing nappies to keeping them entertained while our mother made dinner."

He lowered Tommy to the ground, who immediately began pouting. "Now, now, don't give me that face; it's your sister's turn." Annie gave her own happy squeal as he scooped her up and began to lift and swing her just as he had done with her brother.

Gwen scooped up the fussing Tommy and cradled him while Branson played with her daughter. "I'm so glad you could visit, Tom. Thank you, truly."

He looked back at Gwen, feeling both bashful and moved by her words. "Well, I couldn't miss my 'niece and nephew's' first birthday, now could I?"

Despite the War, his Lordship had insisted that Branson take the holiday time he was deserved. "I'm afraid it will have to be less than what you would usually receive," the Earl had sighed, "I don't think I can spare you for more than three days." But Branson didn't mind, and thanked his Lordship all the same. Besides, if truth be told, he wasn't sure he would want to be away for more than a few days, which in some ways was quite surprising, considering how he was feeling earlier in the summer.

Things were certainly…_different_…now, back at Downton. If he weren't working on his Lordship's cars, he would spend whatever spare time he had reading and studying. When November began, he had gone through a total of seventy-six books! And he was beginning to run out of pages in his journal! _At least I'm finally using that thing for the intentions to which Sybil had given it to me,_ he thought one night as he skimmed through several pages of notes. Indeed, his journal was beginning to look more and more like a collection of political thoughts and theories, than a series of love-sick drabbles. However, while those pages of notes were beginning to outnumber the "love-sick drabbles", that didn't mean he had stopped writing _them_ completely.

Yes, things certainly were different now. He had promised himself, after the fiasco with the General, that he would take a step back, and wait to see if Sybil sought him out. Only then, would he have any inkling of how she perhaps truly felt about him. And while he was trying his hardest to remain cautious and keeping his heart guarded…he couldn't help but smile every time he heard the crunch of gravel beneath her feet. Almost every day, she would manage to find some time, somewhere, to pop down and visit. And every time she did, despite the cautious warnings, his heart lifted more and more.

It wasn't until a few weeks ago, when he had received a letter from Gwen, telling him about how she couldn't believe her twins would soon be turning a year old, that he decided to spend his holiday visiting her and the children, to which she and her husband were more than happy to have visit.

"Hmmm…maybe it is a good thing that you'll be leaving tonight," Gwen teased as she tried to keep Tommy from wriggling out of her arms; he clearly wanted another go with his Uncle Branson. "Lord knows how I'm going to get them to sleep!"

Branson only laughed as he lowered Annie to the ground, but not before giving her a kiss. "I can sing to them again, if you'd like; who knew that two little English children could like 'Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ral' so much?"

The cottage door opened then, and a tall, slender man entered. "Hello, love!" Gwen rose to greet her husband, but paused just before embracing him. "Goodness, Edward, you're soaked through!"

"Not entirely," he chuckled, shaking the rain off his coat, before leaning in to give Gwen a quick kiss. "But I am glad to be home! It's picked up since I saw you at lunch—and it's getting colder by the minute."

Branson tried to suppress his grin as he watched Gwen fuss over her husband, taking a handkerchief from her apron pocket and wiping some of the cold droplets off his face, including his spectacles. Edward made a slight face, but only to tease his wife, before grabbing her about the waist and giving her a proper kiss. "Edward!" Gwen gasped, swatting at his shoulders, her cheeks burning brightly. Branson couldn't help but chuckle, even though to save Gwen further embarrassment, he kindly turned his head.

Edward chuckled too, before lowering his wife back to her feet and giving her rump just the lightest of pinches, grinning while she swatted him once more. "Now, where are my little treasures?" he grinned, turning his attention now to the two children sitting on the floor, both looking up and gurgling happily for the outstretched arms of their father. Branson rose to his feet and smiled as Edward gathered both babies in his arms, kissing them each and cuddling them close. Branson knew that while he could swing them high in the air dozens of times, he would never compare to the hugs of their father, which was as it should be. He took a step back from the happy scene, and then glanced over at Gwen, whose eyes were shining with love as she gazed upon her husband and children. He envied them; this happy homecoming. How many times had he imagined himself in such a situation? Entering his cottage, and being greeted with a kiss by his own beloved? And after spending the past three days with Gwen and her family, how many times had he imagined having such a family of his own one day?

"I'll make you some tea, love," Gwen murmured, moving to the kitchen to boil some water.

Edward smiled and whispered his thanks before turning his attentions to Branson. "I know you have to travel back tonight, but stay a little longer, won't you? At least have supper with us? Hopefully by then the rain will have lessened, if not stopped."

"Oh yes, please, Tom?" Gwen responded from the kitchen. "You can finish telling me more about William and Daisy's engagement…and how Thomas rules the roost…and more about this Ethel, my 'replacement'—"

"No one can replace you, love," Edward reassured, before rising up with Tommy and Annie and giving his wife a silencing kiss. "And Downton Abby's loss is my true gain."

Once more, Branson found himself turning his head to give the couple a private moment. He truly was happy for Gwen and the life she had made. But while he was thankful for the time he had spent with her and Edward and the children, he couldn't deny that he was glad to be leaving soon. It was beginning to hurt, seeing all these things he yearned to have for himself…

"Alright, just for a little longer," Branson conceded, drawing their attention back to him once again.

"What? Oh! That's wonderful!" Gwen was blushing deeply; her husband's kiss had momentarily caused her to lose focus.

"I'll try and put Annie and Tommy to bed," Edward smiled, giving Gwen's brow one more kiss, before turning and leaving the two old friends to themselves.

Branson smiled as Edward passed, giving one last wave to the children, who now looked extremely tired in their father's arms. Once Edward was out of the room, he turned back to Gwen, his smile only broadening more. "He's a good man, Gwen; I'm really happy for you."

Gwen blushed brightly, but she couldn't hide her pleased smile. "He is, thank you. It's just…it's so funny, how I think…not so long ago, I was complaining to Anna about how difficult it was, for housemaids like us to meet gentlemen, let alone find husbands, and…here I am."

Branson smiled and sat down in a chair by the small kitchen table. "Do you miss it?"

Her brow furrowed. "Being a housemaid?"

He couldn't help but chuckle, knowing very well that _that_ was the last thing Gwen would miss. "I meant, working in general…"

"Oh, that…" Gwen shared in Branson's chuckle, and then sighed as she too joined him at the table, bringing some cups and a fresh tea pot. "Well, I can't deny, I do miss it a little. I really like working in an office, actually, having my own desk and all that," she paused as she lifted the teapot to her cup, a sad smile spreading across her lips. "I really liked working with Edward; going to work together, having lunch with our colleagues, coming home together…" she sighed and shook her head and began to pour the tea. "Now, I have to rely on him to tell me everything that's happening."

Branson couldn't help but share in her sad smile. Edward and Gwen were doing well for themselves, but by no means did they have the money to pay for a nanny to stay all day and look after the children. And neither of their families lived very close, either, so Gwen had made the sacrifice to her secretarial dreams, and stayed home while Edward continued to work for Mr. Bromidge's telephone company.

"I shouldn't complain," she added, interrupting his thoughts. "And I don't mean to; Mr. Bromidge has been very kind to us, and says that when the children are older, if I still wish, there will always be a place for me there. And in the meantime, I do still have my old typewriter," she grinned, pointing to a small desk in the corner of the sitting room just next to the kitchen. "I do what I can from here, when the children are asleep in the afternoon," a wistful smile spread across her face, and her eyes lifting in the direction where the children had gone. "But in all honesty, Tom…I wouldn't change a thing; I would do everything again, the exact same way."

Branson smiled, feeling his chest swell with pride and awe at the love and bravery of his dear friend. "To no regrets," he murmured, taking his tea cup and lifting it for a toast. Gwen smiled and repeated the words, with a gentle clink of their cups.

"So!" she said with a somewhat mischievous grin after taking a sip of her tea. "Tell me more about everything that's happening at Downton! You've been here for three days, Tom, and yet you've hardly spoken a word about it!"

It was true; by some miracle, he had managed to steer away from the topic, even though he knew Gwen was dying to learn more about what was going on with their friends back in Lord Grantham's service. He knew that today, on his last day of staying, there would be no way to escape her questions, and so just before Edward had come home, he had begun to share all the "Downton gossip" she had been longing to hear since his arrival.

"Well, I told you about William and Daisy—"

"I still can't believe it!" Gwen gasped, shaking her head in wonder. "I mean, William's always been sweet on Daisy, and I know that she does like him…but…I didn't think she liked him _as much_ as he liked her!"

Branson bit his lip. "Well…I…I suspect Daisy's affirmation had more to do with the fact that William is going off to war than perhaps with…true love."

Gwen's eyes saddened then. "Oh goodness, that does make sense," she sighed and shook her head. "Poor William…and poor Daisy! Let me guess…this was Mrs. Patmore's doing?"

Branson rolled his eyes. "She's convinced that this will give William hope; something worth fighting for," he groaned and looked down at the steaming tea in his cup. "Poor fool; I don't think he has any idea the danger he's facing; thinks he's invincible."

Gwen frowned. "I don't know about that, Tom. William's opinion on the War may be a bit different from yours—"

"A bit?"

"Alright, _vastly_ different. But…I wouldn't say he has no idea the danger he's about to face…" she paused and took a sip of her tea. "As for Daisy, I like to think that she would eventually come around to him and feel for him as he feels for her; I just wish Mrs. Patmore hadn't pushed."

Branson nodded his head. "She lost her nephew in the War," he murmured. "It was blurted out one night at supper, back in July, by Mr. Lang, his Lordship's former valet."

"That's right, I remember you telling me about him! Oh how dreadful for Mrs. Patmore."

He nodded again. "She's doing better, but…we all know how hard it can be, moving forward in grief," he sighed and took another sip of tea. "I didn't know him very well, Mr. Lang, but…he suffered from his own demons. I do wish him the best."

Gwen sat back in her chair, her arms folded and her brow furrowing as she contemplated something. "And his Lordship still hasn't filled the position?"

Branson shook his head. "Mr. Carson mainly sees to it…as if he doesn't have enough to do. But no, his Lordship hasn't hired anyone. I think…I think after everything that happened with Mr. Lang, his Lordship knows he won't be able to find someone to 'properly' replace Mr. Bates."

Gwen fidgeted a little at the mention of the former valet, but before Branson could question the gesture, she took a sip of team and said, "It's amazing in some ways that Thomas didn't try to go for it, after all the talk he gave about wanting some big position like that, in the past."

"But why would he?" Branson countered. "As 'Medical Manager', he doesn't have to take orders from Mr. Carson…_technically_."

Gwen groaned. "Lord, Tom, you have more patience than me! I wouldn't be able to stand it if Thomas were in charge!"

"Ah, but as I said, _technically_, he's not. See, the problem with Thomas is, he says he doesn't have to take orders from Mr. Carson because he's not a servant anymore. However, he spends more time downstairs in the Servant's Hall, than upstairs 'managing' things. And he also likes to give plenty of orders to the staff."

Gwen's eyes widened and her mouth fell open. "That slimy hypocrite—"

"Don't worry, Gwen," Branson couldn't help grinning at her outrage. "He'll get what's coming to him. Mrs. Hughes has taken notice…as has Dr. Clarkson."

"Still…" Gwen muttered, taking a quick sip of tea to calm her anger. "Now tell me more about Ethel?"

"Oh Lord, listen to you!" Branson laughed. "Are you jealous?"

"Jealous?" Gwen looked positively aghast that he would suggest such a thing. "Why would you think that?"

"Because it's only the fifth time _today_, that you've asked me to tell you more about her," he argued, still looking amused. "It's not as if I've never told you about her in my letters. Take your husband's advice, Gwen; no one could replace you!"

She put on a bit of a pout, which only caused Branson to laugh some more. He honestly didn't know which woman reminded him more of his sister: Gwen or Anna.

"Anna says that she's a terrible flirt," Gwen mumbled, trying to recover her wounded pride. "Would you say that's true? Has she flirted with you?"

Now it was Branson's turn to groan. "Just the one time, and I'm convinced that was only because there were no better options."

"Oh Tom," Gwen began to scold, but he held up his hand to stop her.

"Trust me, I don't mind. She's nice enough…at times…but she does have a bit of an…_air_…about her," he explained. "I think she prefers men of a certain…standing."

"Like the officers staying there?"

Branson frowned. "Who told you that?"

"Anna, of course!"

_ Of course._

"According to Anna, she sees Ethel spending quite a bit of time 'playing nurse' to some of the officers," Gwen explained, trying to sound casual, but clearly enjoying the bit of gossip.

"Don't you go and turn into O'Brien on me," Branson warned. "I understand the longing for stories from Downton, just as I understand your longing for tales from your workplace, but there's no need to relish in someone else's stupidity."

Gwen made a face, muttered "spoil sport" under her breath, which only caused Branson to smile back at her. Yes, she most definitely reminded him of Kathleen.

"I mean it, Gwen; Ethel…she talks about wanting a life beyond service, but unlike you, she doesn't have a clear plan," he sighed, recalling how one afternoon, while he had been working in the garage, he heard giggling, and through a window saw Ethel and one of the officers hurry into an oak grove, looking very…_mischievous_. Yes, Ethel was very different from Gwen; her plan clearly consisted of landing a well-to-do husband. "Anyway," he lifted his eyes from his tea and smiled at her. "I think that's the lot of the news. No doubt Anna keeps you informed."

Gwen fidgeted once again, causing Branson's brow to crinkle with confusion. She had done that earlier when he had mentioned Bates. "Is something wrong?"

"Wrong?" Gwen squeaked, before quickly shaking her head. "Why would you think that?" she rose from her chair to check on a beef stew she had left to simmer on the stove nearby.

"Perhaps because you're behaving as you are," he calmly explained, watching her face closely. "What is it? You can tell me, I won't spread—"

"No, I shouldn't, Anna wouldn't want me to—" her hand flew to her mouth at the sudden outburst, and her eyes widened as she looked at Branson in horror and disbelief. "Oh God, I…I…oh, me and my big mouth!"

Branson rose from his chair and went over to the stove where Gwen stood. "What? What is it?"

She was shaking her head, her words muffled from her hand that was still clamped over her mouth. "No, no, I promised not to breathe a word—"

"Alright, alright, no need to get into a panic," Branson reassured, putting his hands up in a calming motion, before stepping back and sitting down once more. He wouldn't push, but…at the same time, he knew he would be wondering what on earth had his friend so worked up. _Something to do with Anna_, he thought, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together_. Anna said something to Gwen, but didn't want Gwen to tell anyone. Something personal about Anna…and the only other time Gwen looked nervous as she had when I mentioned Anna's name was when I said something about Bates—_

"Gwen…does this have to do with Mr. Bates?"

Gwen's eyes widened in surprise. "How…how did you…how were you…?" She paused, realizing that she was giving everything away now. "Oh God, Anna will take a bus up here to my village to kill me!"

"No she won't," Branson reassured. "I won't say anything either, I promise."

Gwen made a face. "Don't see what good that will do; I made the same promise when Anna told me—"

"Alright, I see your point, but…I swear to you Gwen, whatever you share with me in this house, will not leave with me when I go out that door."

Gwen bit her lip, and then threw her hands up in the air in a display of exasperation, before returning to her seat at the kitchen table. "Anna discovered Mr. Bates at a pub!"

Branson stared at his friend a good, long moment, trying to fully take in what she had just told him. "Bates is…is at a pub?"

Gwen nodded her head, looking both relieved for finally getting the secret out, as well as horrified that she had revealed anything at all.

"But…" Branson murmured, his brow only crinkling more and more as he tried to make sense of the news. "But…he went back to London…he's _in_ London, with _his wife_—"

"That's what we all thought, Anna included!" Gwen hissed, leaning forward as if the walls had ears and would tattle on her secret if they could. "But a few months ago, she thought she saw him…and then she and…and Lady Mary," she paused, taking a deep breath and deep drink of her tea before continuing, "Apparently Lady Mary's beau, that newspaperman you've mentioned? Well, apparently Lady Mary asked him to help learn Mr. Bates' whereabouts—and it turns out he's not in London at all, but…working in some Yorkshire pub!"

"In Downton village?" As soon as he asked the question, Branson knew it was wrong. There was only one large pub in the village, and he had never seen Bates there.

Gwen shook her head, and looked down at her near-empty tea cup. "No, he's…it's not someplace near Downton, I…I don't really know where, Anna didn't say in her letter…" she looked utterly ashamed. "Suppose she knew I wouldn't be able to keep her secret, so she left that detail out."

"Don't be hard on yourself," Branson argued. "If Anna didn't want anyone to know, she wouldn't have written to you about it at all." Although Anna hadn't said anything to him about seeing Mr. Bates, and he was fairly positive she hadn't said anything to anyone else…save Lady Mary.

So Bates was working in a pub somewhere in Yorkshire? And apparently Anna had learned this earlier in the summer, so he must have been working in that pub for…well, at least half a year! Perhaps that explained the recent changes he saw in Anna? She did seem to be happier; at least she smiled a great deal more. It would also explain why she always went somewhere on her afternoon's off, even though that wasn't so unusual; many people went into the village or to nearby Ripon on their afternoon's off—including himself to the Downton pub, which was how he knew Bates couldn't possibly be working there. But Anna always took a bus, and she always seemed to dress as finely as she could…

So whatever happened to the mysterious Mrs. Bates? Had the divorce finally come through? No, if that had happened, Bates wouldn't have hesitated, he would have returned to Anna right away, a free man. Maybe she had left him? No, once again, if that had happened, no court in the land would deny Bates the right to divorce his wife. _So he must still be married to her._ Did that mean she was also in Yorkshire, too?

He was still pondering this when Gwen's husband returned to the kitchen. "I finally got Tommy to lie down; Annie went to sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. The stew smells heavenly, love! " He paused when he saw the guilty expression on his wife's face. He then glanced over at Branson and simply murmured, "She told you about Mr. Bates?"

"Edward!"

Her husband couldn't help but chuckle. "I've never even met the gentleman! I wouldn't know him if I saw him in a crowd, let alone a pub," he shook his head and looked back at Branson. "She tore herself up just like this when she revealed Miss Smith's secret to me, and I don't even know the man!"

Gwen gave her husband a fierce look, which only earned a good, hard laugh. She got up and began muttering words about "men!" to herself, as she went to check on the stew. Despite the recent news about Mr. Bates, and the confusion to which it brought, Branson couldn't help but smile at the display of so-called domestic "bliss".

"So Tom!" Edward smiled as he poured himself a cup of tea. "I understand you're interested in politics?"

Branson blushed a bit, only because he had just met Edward over these past few days, and while the man seemed fair and good, he wasn't sure how he would feel about some of his socialist views. "Aye," he answered. "I don't know if it's possible for an Irishman in this day and age _to not be_ political."

"I take it then that you're for independence?"

Branson looked at Edward for a moment, trying to decipher the man's own opinion on the matter. Most Englishmen he had encountered bristled at the idea of Ireland becoming a free state. However, he wasn't one to hide his beliefs, either. "I am," he began. "However, I'm not for violence," he quickly added. "I…I lost my cousin, in the Easter Rising."

Edward's face showed nothing but genuine sympathy. "Oh, I am sorry," he sighed, looking down at his own tea cup. "My…my younger brother…he was killed, earlier this year."

Branson nodded his head, remembering Gwen's letter from earlier in the spring. Indeed, loss seemed to be something that connected many people these past few years, no matter their social standing or nationality.

"Anyway, the reason I asked you about politics, was…well, Gwen told me that, like her, one day you hope to leave service and pursue…a different type of career?"

Branson glanced over to where Gwen stood, who was now trying very hard to conceal a knowing smile. Her husband also shared a similar smile, but Branson himself was utterly baffled. "Well…yes, I do want to do something more with my life…I always thought that maybe…something in the realm of politics—although I don't see myself as an actual politician, mind you."

"And what do you see yourself as?" Edward inquired, glancing over at Gwen and then back at him. Branson was still puzzled. "Based on what you've told us during these past few days…you spend a great deal of time, when you're able, to read and study. So I can't help but wonder…if you plan on using your newly gained knowledge for something?"

Gwen let out a groan. "Oh Edward, stop being so mysterious and just come out with it!" Branson had to concur.

Edward laughed and held up a hand in surrender. "Alright, alright, my apologies for the cryptic message," he rose from his chair then, and went into the sitting room, where a rather large, dark box sat. He bent down, and with a few grunts, lifted a very heavy object out of the box, before turning and bringing that object back into the kitchen and placing it on the table in front of Branson.

Branson stared at the contraption, unsure what to say…but one look up at his host and hostess, there was no doubt that they were presenting the item _to him_.

"A…a typewriter?"

Gwen giggled and nodded her head happily. "A new model too!" she grinned. "Mr. Bromidge got them for the office, but…I could never part with my original," she sentimentally sighed.

Edward grinned and came over to Gwen and put his arm around her shoulders. "So we thought, who better to give this to…than you?"

Branson's eyes were practically bulging out of his skull at the revelation. "M-M-M-Me?" he stuttered, amazed at what they were saying…as well as what they were offering him. "But…but…I couldn't—"

"Oh stuff it, Tom!" Gwen admonished, putting her hands on her hips and daring him to argue with her. "It's been sitting in that box, gathering dust, since September! And it will continue to sit and gather dust if you don't take it!"

"But surely your employer—"

"Mr. Bromidge already knows," Edward reassured. "I spoke to him today about it, actually. And he's surprisingly fine with the idea," he smiled at Gwen before turning his eyes back to Branson's. "And in this day and age, if one wants to be taken seriously as a writer, one needs a typewriter."

Branson's mouth fell open as Edward's words washed over him. _A writer_. Him…a writer! A political writer, like those men and women whose articles he admired so much. It was amazing that the thought had never occurred to him…and yet, why else had he been so diligent in his studies? He had been looking for some chance; some way to make a difference…perhaps this was the answer he had been searching for?

"I…I don't know what to say…" he murmured, feeling very honored and humbled by the gift.

"Oh just say you'll accept it!" Gwen laughed, before throwing her arms around him and giving him a fierce hug.

Branson laughed and hugged her back, before releasing her and shaking Edward's hand heartily. "Thank you…thank you both, very much."

They sat down for supper then, and continued the conversation about politics, which Edward took an interest in, as well as the lives of old friends back at Downton, which Gwen was certainly interested in. The conversation could have carried on for hours after the stew was finished, but Branson knew he needed to get back, and take his chance while the rain had calmed to a soft patter.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Tom," Edward smiled, shaking Branson's hand once more.

A child's cry interrupted their parting, and Gwen groaned as she heard another cry join the first. "I'll go and check on them, don't worry," Edward reassured, giving Gwen's shoulders an affectionate squeeze, before turning and leaving her the opportunity to say goodbye to her friend.

"Well, you've done well, Gwen," Branson smiled as Edward disappeared around a corner.

Gwen blushed but nodded her head, her eyes following her husband as well. "And you, Tom?" she asked, turning her head back to him. "What about you?"

Branson gave her a look; while he had never explicitly told Gwen about his feelings for Sybil, only an idiot would be unable to decipher his emotions based on the letters they had exchanged, and Gwen was no idiot.

"You know me, Gwen," he sighed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Who has time for romance, between reading and tinkering on his Lordship's Renault?"

Gwen folded her arms across her chest and gave him a teasing smile. "And I thought that maybe this Ethel was the girl for you?"

"Bite your tongue," he warned, with a roll of his eyes, which naturally caused her to laugh. He laughed too, but his mind wandered again to the love he had seen in that cottage; the love between Gwen and her husband, and the children their love had created. He also thought about Bates, whose circumstances were still quite mystifying, but who clearly shared a deep, loving connection with Anna, who was apparently aware of his current address. And he even thought about Daisy and William; the lad was smitten beyond repair and despite Branson's own grim feelings, Gwen managed to see hope…that perhaps Daisy would come around, and she would realize her own affections for the love-sick footman.

"Have faith, Tom," Gwen murmured, touching his arm and giving it a squeeze. He was startled by the gesture, but smiled back; although he doubted she was referring to the couple he had just been contemplating. "Now," she instructed as she helped him with his things. "Be sure to write to me well before Christmas; oh! And please make sure you give my regards to Lady Sybil…" she paused for a moment, a devilish gleam lighting her eyes. "You can even give her a hug from me, if you wish?"

Branson nearly dropped the typewriter he had just picked up. He gave Gwen a look, but she only laughed. "Safe journeys, Tom!"

"And good health to you and your family," he responded with a parting smile.

He turned to leave, but just before he did, he felt Gwen's hand on his shoulder. He turned to look at her, wondering if he had forgotten something, but her eyes held his gaze with such an intensity that it almost hurt to look. "I meant what I said Tom…_have faith."_

His brow furrowed, although his heart was shaking. "What…?"

"That's all I can say; I've broken one secret today, I can't break another. Just…heed my advice." And without another word, she shut the door…leaving him standing there, outside her cottage, while soft droplets fell from the sky.

_Have faith…_

What did she mean? Surely she didn't…?

…Did she?


	79. 1917: A Second Letter to Susan

_Ok, so I saw the latest ITV trailer for Downton season 3, and all I can say us...WOW! If you haven't seen it, go to Youtube and look! Your emotions will be spilling over! And after seeing that trailer, it jumpstarted me to get this next chapter out, which is considerably shorter compared to Chapter 78, so that helped :oP The main purpose of this chapter, the last of my "missing months", is to foreshadow things to come...as well as simply to feature Christmas in the Downton Convalesecent Home._

_THANK YOU AGAIN for all the lovely feedback; I can't thank you all enough for the kind words of encouragement and support. I do hope you enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seventy-Nine<strong>

Dearest Susan,

CONGRATULATIONS! Oh, I must confess, I did not expect _that_ announcement in your letter! So I suppose I must get used to calling you _Mrs. Lawson_, or Nurse Lawson, rather than Miss/Nurse Vincent.

Oh Susan, I…I am truly flabbergasted! I just…I never thought you and James would elope! Although, I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised; your last letter was filled with grumblings about all the frustrations your families were causing, as you and James tried to plan a simple and elegant wedding.

Oh! Not that your letter was full of complaints! I…I don't mean that's all you wrote about, I…

…

Oh forgive me, Susan, I seem to have caught the infamous "foot in mouth" disease. No doubt you remember how I suffered from it back in nursing school?

No, in all seriousness, I am so happy for you and James, truly! I wish I could have been there (and alright, I can't deny I'm a little envious that I missed it) but at the end of the day, all that matters is that you both are happy. And if running away to Gretna Green to marry the man you love without having to worry about any further fuss or frustrations could offer you even a _smidgen_ of that happiness…then God bless it and God bless you both!

Oh, but you MUST tell me, as soon as you are able, more about the wedding! I don't know anyone who's ever gone to Gretna Green; it's something you only read about in novels. Was it terribly romantic? Lord, I can hardly believe that _I'm_ the one asking that, since I never considered myself an incurable romantic, but I suppose with my friends…I am! So was it? Romantic, I mean? Were you married in at an inn? I'm curious to know how lifelike some of those novels are, that describe such situations. There was one where the characters ran away and were married at an inn, and then just next to the room where the ceremony took place was a bedroom, so they could—

…

…

Well…not that I need to…

I mean…you understand…

…

YES! Well, I look forward to you telling me as much as you can about the wedding!

…Not that you need to go into _every_ detail, of course, I…

…

So, um…how…how did your families take it when you returned and told them the news? Were they very upset? That's probably a stupid question, but…oh Susan, whatever happened, I know that it was beautiful and wonderful, and I will send a present to you both as soon as I can. Hopefully it will arrive not long after New Year's!

How was your Christmas? You didn't mention in your letter, but…were you and James married by Christmas? Oh you really must tell me more in your next letter, I am so anxious to hear all the details! My Christmas was a much calmer affair, to be sure. "Christmas in the Convalescent Home!" It certainly was unlike any Christmas I've celebrated before! And while it was far from ideal in my grandmother's opinion…I found the entire experience…very pleasant, actually. In truth, it truly made me appreciate the holiday more, and see the meaning behind it, rather than a day where we overindulge on rich foods and exchange gifts we hardly ever use.

Oh Susan, I do remember how only a year ago, you were begging me to tell you elaborate stories about Christmas balls and parties held here at Downton. I'm sorry to disappoint that I don't have such a story to share with you…at least perhaps not what you originally imagined. But…in its own way, our "Convalescent Christmas" had grandeur of its own.

My sister Edith should take the credit, really. Oh Susan, she truly has blossomed ever since the Convalescent Home began! She's so good at managing things, and all of the officers admire her. I would even dare to say that before my mother, my Cousin Isobel, or I know what's happening or what the officer's need, Edith is already on top of it! And so it was Edith's idea to have some sort of holiday celebration for the soldiers.

Of course we couldn't have anything too…physical, if you will; many of the men are recovering from serious injuries, so we couldn't have any kind of dancing, although I'm sure there were several officers who would have loved a dance or two. And we couldn't ask our cook, Mrs. Patmore, to prepare a grand feast, when she already has enough work to do. But I offered my so-called "cooking skills", and insisted at the very least, we could make the men a Christmas pudding. So the days leading up to Christmas, I worked in the kitchens with our cook and the maids, trying to make at least fifteen puddings for the number of patients and medical staff who occupy the house!

Needless to say, it was a daunting task.

But we did succeed! And even though we couldn't serve the pudding with the traditional flame, the officers were very thankful, and some of them had tears in their eyes when we served it! Oh Susan, that alone was worth the effort.

But pudding wasn't the only festive treat we offered! After all, what would Christmas be without a rousing game of Charades? All of the officers were gathered in the great hall, and everyone got into it, including the medical staff! And yes, even I tried my hand at acting out some silly word. Papa even invited the Downton staff to be present for our game, and a few of them even made a play…including Branson.

Yes, Susan, _that_ Branson. Now, will you kindly stop wriggling your eyebrows? I know you are!

Oh gracious, Susan, you should have seen it! Branson's word was none other than "typewriter"! He certainly had a bulk of the crowd stumped! And it's so funny that that should be the word he had to act, because he recently acquired a typewriter from my dear friend, Gwen. Gwen is a secretary for a telephone company, and her employer gave all of his workers the latest model in typewriters! But Gwen is very attached to her old model (even if it does date back to 1912), so she gave the new one to Branson! It was very kind of her, and will come in handy for him, since he revealed to me not so long ago that he is thinking about perhaps pursuing a career as a political writer!

Oh, did I ever mention that to you? Branson is quite political, in fact, I would dare say he introduced me to many wonderful writers and theorists who are (don't tell Papa!) "Socialist"! In fact, did you know that Edith Nesbit is a socialist? Did you ever read The Story of the Treasure Seekers as a child? I was amazed to learn this, but apparently it's true! Branson was the one who actually told me, and then he got me some pamphlets about the society to which she and her husband and their friends founded—

…

…

Yes, well…as you can see, Branson is a very dear…friend. And I wish him the best as he continues to follow his dream! He will be a wonderful writer, I have no doubt.

…

Anyway, back to Christmas! So after the game, Papa read the Christmas story from both the Gospels of Matthew and Luke in the Bible, and then led all of us in a prayer. It was very moving, to be sure; we prayed for safe returns, for strength to those who remain on the battlefield, for the families who are waiting for their loved ones to come home, for the fallen…and of course, for peace.

I know that prayer meant so much to so many; my Cousin Isobel was standing just beside me, and I reached over and took her hand in mine. Her son, Matthew, is spending Christmas in London with his fiancée and her father. But he very well could have been one of those men who had to spend Christmas in a trench, something we are all too aware of. So I think she was grateful for the gesture, because she happily squeezed my hand in return.

We sang carols after that. They began solemn at first; one voice began to sing (I don't know who it was) the lovely strains of "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" and the rest of the officers soon joined in. Then, the carols became merrier; someone started "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen", which was soon followed by "The First Noel", and "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing". By the time we sang "Good King Wenceslas", all of the men were on their feet, throwing their arms around one another and swaying to the music. Poor Granny; she was sitting in a corner, observing the whole affair, and when they began to rise and sway, she reached for Papa as if she feared they would rise up and attack! I couldn't help but giggle at the scene.

And…even though it's not an English carol, it couldn't be helped; one man began to sing "Silent Night", and soon all of us were singing with him. And I'm not sure when it happened, but sometime in the midst of our singing, Mrs. Hughes and a few other members of staff had lit some candles, and all of the lamps were turned down and the lights were turned off…and there we were, singing "Silent Night", surrounded by candlelight.

There was a moment of silence then, at the end, where we just looked around at the beauty of the light, before Papa murmured, in a rather emotional voice, "Happy Christmas…and God bless us all, this New Year."

…Indeed, I wouldn't mind celebrating Christmas like that again, Susan. It certainly made me thankful for all that I have…and opened my eyes to what's really important.

I pray things are well for you at the hospital in Liverpool. And I wish you and James a very wonderful and happy New Year! Naturally, that is Edith's next project, to try and create a lovely and memorable New Year's celebration for the men. I hope she realizes that New Year's Eve is only three days away; that doesn't give her much time! But whatever happens, I'll be sure to write and tell you everything…just as I am eagerly awaiting YOUR letter!

Oh Susan…once more, congratulations. Many, many blessings upon you both! And by the grace of God, we can pray that by this time, next year, Christmas will be very different. That is my prayer and my hope for 1918…peace on earth.

All my love to you and your family, _Mrs_. Lawson.

Happy Christmas and Happy New Year!

Affectionately,

—Sybil


	80. His White Knight

_It's a new year in the world of Downton-1918! And with it comes a new part to the story. Just to give a little background info, I remember the Dowager Countess saying to Mary in Episode 4 of S2, how she wondered if Sybil had a beau...and if she did, was it someone she was trying to keep secret? To me, that said that she had certainly noticed something in her youngest granddaughter...and possibly with a certain chauffeur! ALSO, I couldn't resist writing a scene where Branson squares off with another character...it's almost as much fun as Jealous!Branson ;o) AND I mention Mr. Pratt, the *other chuaffeur* in this chapter; I have NO IDEA where Pratt came from or anything about him; Lord Grantham just starts talking about him in Episode 4, so I assume that sometime between the episodes 3 & 4, they hired a second chauffeur. I don't know his full story, so I apologize if I've gone "AU" with that character. If so, just ignore it and pretend this all makes sense :oP_

_OK! Enough of that. THANK YOU for subscribing, reading, and commenting! Please continue to leave your thoughts, they really drive my writing and inspire!_

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><p><strong>Volume II, Part V<strong>

_Winter/Spring 1918_

**Chapter Eighty**

Despite the distinct chill in the late morning air, the Renault needed to be washed and he had put it off long enough. The truth was, he hated washing cars in the winter; you always ran the risk of the water freezing before you had finished, which meant he would have to carefully scrape the ice off, and the gloves were too bulky, so he would have to take them off to chip the ice away, causing the skin on his fingers to blister and crack from the cold. And even though the winter months of 1918 had been fairly mild for the most part…there was still the chance that ice could form. The clock in his cottage told him it was half-past ten, and he doubted it would get any warmer, so with a groan, he put on the brown mechanic suit, and rolled the Renault outside the garage, ready to get to work. He hadn't even had the chance to fill the bucket before he was interrupted by a distinct "Ah-hem!" just over his shoulder.

"Good morning, my fellow!"

Branson's brow furrowed at the officer who stood before him. He had seen the man around the house—in fact, if memory served, this gentleman had been at the convalescent home since it opened last summer. He couldn't help but wonder why; the man seemed to be in perfect health.

"Can I help you, sir?"

The man smiled, but it was not a smile that put Branson at ease. If truth be told, the smile reminded him of a snake slithering in the grass.

There was something else about this man, but Branson couldn't quite put his finger on it. He was an average height, and average build. His hair was dark, and he had a dark moustache. Nothing remarkable about his appearance that stood out to Branson's memory, and yet…there was something…

…And it made him uneasy.

"I'm glad you asked that!" the officer said with a smile, and turned his attentions to the Renault, clearly admiring it. "I was told you were the man to see about a car."

Branson's brow furrowed even more. "Beggin' your pardon?"

The officer didn't even bother to look up at him, he was too engrossed in the car, and he began to circle it as if he were in the market, inspecting a future purchase. "She is a beauty, I must say," the officer murmured, reaching out to run his hand along the Renault's bonnet. Branson frowned at the gesture; he would have to scrub the car twice.

"What's your name, lad?"

Branson's frown didn't lessen. The question sounded very condescending. "Branson," he replied, with clipped lips.

"Ah yes, Branson," the officer repeated, his eyes still focused on the car.

Branson's eyes narrowed as he assessed the officer. It was clear, without having any background information, that whoever this man was, he came from a very fine upbringing where he was used to ordering and ignoring those he deemed, _"beneath him"._

"And your name, sir?"

The officer lifted his eyes, clearly taken aback by the question. "I'm sorry?"

Branson put on a smile, although anyone with half a brain could tell it was far from genuine. "I gave you my name, so I was curious as to yours."

The officer's eyes narrowed slightly, and Branson wondered if the man could tell that he was being mocked. But he merely put on that snake-like smile that he had worn upon arriving, and gave a slight bow of his head, before answering, "Major Bryant."

_One of the higher-ups,_ Branson thought to himself. Anna had told him that several high-ranking officers were given actual rooms, rather than sleep on hospital beds in one giant, make-shift dormitory. Indeed, this Major Bryant was someone who came from so-called "good breeding".

"As I was saying," Major Bryant continued, even though if truth be told, he hadn't said much. "I am interested in getting some fresh air, so I thought, what better way to do that than by going for a ride?"

Branson was surprised by Major Bryant's request. He had never considered the possibility of being asked to drive any of the patients around. Was he even allowed to? The subject had never even been mentioned! "You want me to drive you somewhere?"

Major Bryant threw his head back and gave a great bark of laughter. "God no!" He continued laughing, and Branson's face changed from surprise to resentment. Now he was the one being mocked. "No, no, you misunderstand me, my friend."

_ Friend? That's the furthest thing from the truth._

Major Bryant was still trying to calm his laughter. "No, I don't want _you_ to drive me…I am fully capable of driving a car on my own, thank you," he said with more than a hint of superiority. "No, what I am asking is for you to _give me_ a car," he explained, as if the explanation were the simplest thing in the world. He looked back at the Renault and nodded his head. "This will do quite nicely."

Branson could only stare at the man in utter bewilderment. Was this some kind of joke? "You…you want to take one of his Lordship's cars for a drive?" He knew he ran the risk of being mocked once again, but at the same time, he had to be sure he wasn't dreaming; that this conversation was truly happening.

"Oh don't be daft, boy," Major Bryant groaned, a condescending smile spreading across his lips. "Are you really going to make me repeat myself?"

It took every ounce of willpower Branson had to not respond with a swing of his fist, let alone a harsh retort.

Instead, he stood up straight and squared his shoulders, his eyes steady and fixed on the major's. "No sir, that won't be necessary," he muttered. "I'm just surprised; I was never told that patients were allowed to go for drives in his Lordship's cars."

The condescending merriment on Major Bryant's face melted, and now it was he who was frowning deeply. "Well, I have that permission."

"Really?" Branson pretended to be surprised, although it was obvious by the way he spoke that the tone was calling Major Bryant's bluff. "You and his Lordship must get on quite well!"

Major Bryant's frown deepened, and he straightened his own shoulders, lifting his chin in an effort to appear superior. "Yes, well…he's a good man," he muttered, giving Branson a harsh look. "Even if he does hire paddy hooligans."

The man was enough of a coward to have muttered that last part under his breath with hopes that Branson hadn't heard it, but where he could still feel superior for having spoken it. The problem was, Branson had heard it, and took a threatening step forward, which startled the major, causing him to take a quick step back.

Branson couldn't help but smile at the reaction. Just as he thought. _The git probably skinned his knee in some trench, which earned him the right to come here; he strikes me as the sort who would push another in front of him to take a bullet, giving him a chance to run for safety._

"Look, you're wasting my time—"

"I'm very sorry to hear that, sir," Branson replied, folding his arms across his chest, not sounding sorry in the least.

Major Bryant glared at him. "I just might go and report you—"

"Major," Branson interrupted, holding up his hands in a sign of peace, which certainly threw off whatever Major Bryant had been about to say. "If his Lordship has given you permission to drive any of his cars, then I have no qualm in handing one of them over to you."

Major Bryant frowned and folded his own arms across his chest. "_If,_ his Lordship…?"

Branson couldn't help but smile_. Ah, so you caught that, did you?_ "Of course," he said with a slight, mocking bow of his head. "I'll just go and find Mr. Carson, to confirm with his Lordship—"

Yes, Branson was calling on the major's bluff. He didn't believe for a second that his Lordship had given anyone permission to drive any of his cars, and if he had, Branson knew that he would have heard about it from Mr. Carson, if not from his Lordship, himself! So even though he were mocking Major Bryant and calling his bluff, he was still surprised by the man's sudden jab against his chest, causing him to stagger back a step.

"Are you calling me a liar?" Major Bryant hissed, his eyes narrowing to two, angry slits, his fingers threatening to jab Branson's chest again.

Yet Branson had recovered from the shock of the gesture, and purposefully stepped forward until he could feel the major's fingers digging against his ribs. "You want the truth…_sir?"_

Major Bryant's lip actually curled up into a snarl. "Listen, you disgusting mick—"

"Major Bryant!"

Both men turned at the shrill voice and quickly took a step away from each other, as Sybil calmly approached them, her hands on her hips, her chin lifted high, and her expression cold. She was not a woman to be trifled with.

"Major Bryant," she repeated, her voice not as shrill, but her tone every bit as commanding. "You know it is far too cold for you to be outside; _Major _Clarkson gave you strict instructions to stay indoors until that infection clears up."

Branson bit the inside of his cheek to keep his smile at bay. God, how he loved that woman. And how she made his blood simmer when she stood up to bullies with that commanding presence she possessed. But he watched Major Bryant carefully; if the man said one word against her, Branson knew his job at Downton would be as good as done.

But he didn't say anything; the man simply looked humiliated. He glanced at Branson, gave him a look of angered disgust, and then turned his eyes back to Sybil, giving her a similar look. Branson was extremely tempted to wipe that look off the man's face with his fist, but by that point, Major Bryant was beginning to walk away.

"Thank you, Major," Sybil said politely as he walked passed.

"Nurse Crawley," he muttered under his breath in return.

"_Lady_ Sybil Crawley!" Branson growled at the man's retreating figure, but Major Bryant made no attempt to show that he had heard him.

Branson was still glaring daggers at the man's back, when Sybil came up to him and murmured, "Well, that was a first!"

"Not for me," he muttered, his eyes never leaving the major until he started to round a corner. "I've had to deal with pompous prigs like him my whole life."

Just then, he caught a glimpse of Ethel approaching Major Bryant. She looked confused and was making some sort of gesture with her hands towards the garage. Major Bryant held up his own hand, in a sign that he wanted to be left alone and stalked passed her. Ethel then turned and looked at Branson, and there was no mistake the angry glare she was giving him. Now he realized the connection to why the man seemed so familiar; Major Bryant was the officer he had seen sneaking off into the oak grove with Ethel.

"No, you misunderstand…"

Sybil's words brought him back to the present, and he turned to look at her, confused. "What?"

She grinned. "I meant…that's a first, in the sense of you actually _insisting_ on the acknowledgment of my _title_…"

There was a blush on her cheek, and her smile only seemed to grow brighter. Branson looked down at her and felt his throat go dry suddenly. Was she…_flirting_ with him? Not that the two of them hadn't flirted before; although in the past, it had seemed so much more innocent. That was before he had realized he was head over heels in love with her; and it certainly was before he had told her as much. So, in the aftermath of all that had happened between them…_was she?_

He cleared his throat, reminding himself (once again) to approach with caution. "Forgive me, milady—"

"Oh Branson, you know you don't need to do that when it's just the two of us."

He looked into her eyes and her cheeks grew even rosier than before. She bit her lip and looked down at her feet, but he could still see the traces of what could only be described as a bashful smile, still on her lips.

"Forgive me…Sybil…" he began again. He wanted to tell her that she could say his name too, his first name, as Gwen did. But they were not ready to cross that bridge…at least not yet, he hoped. "What I mean is," he explained, "I apologize for speaking out of turn…and for anything you may have heard—"

"Branson, _you_ are not the person who should be offering apologies." She turned her gaze once more in the direction where Major Bryant had gone. "Horrid man," she muttered.

Branson, however, couldn't help but smile. "But I had my 'white knight' to defend me," he teased, nudging her shoulder just lightly with his own.

Sybil looked up at him and with a giggle, returned the nudge. "Yes, well, I hate to see a 'damsel' in distress."

He nudged her a little harder, and Sybil let out a loud laugh, which naturally was infectious, and soon they were both grinning and giggling as they had done years ago. But had he felt the urge to grab her about the waist and pull her flush against him, and kiss her senseless back then as he did now?

…Perhaps.

They were standing rather close, and Sybil seemed to realize this immediately, and so quickly took a step back, as did he. "I…I um…" she blushed, and began to play with the apron she was wearing. Lord, she was adorable. "Um…oh yes!" she looked up at him as if she had just realized her intended purpose for being there…which apparently, she had. "Granny would like the car brought around; Pratt who brought her over for breakfast, took Cousin Isobel to the hospital."

Pratt was an older chauffeur that had formerly worked for a wealthy neighbor of the Crawley's; a neighbor whose finances had more or less gone into ruin. He and his family lived in the village, and his Lordship had hired him partly to help with any extra driving that was needed (since the convalescent home had opened, there seemed to be a need for more motor trips) and partly because his Lordship felt sorry for the man after the loss of his job. Branson knew that if Lord Grantham could, he would have hired the other servants too, but his finances, while better than his neighbors, didn't stretch _that_ far.

"Alright, I'll be there in two minutes." He glanced at the Renault quickly, and assessed that it looked fine enough for a simple drive to the Dower House, and quickly returned to the garage to remove his mechanic's suit and put on his livery jacket. As he exited the garage, he looked up and was surprised to see Sybil still standing there, patiently waiting. "I thought you were going to tell her?"

"There's no need, she'll be at the front of the house, shortly."

Branson frowned. "Sybil, it's practically freezing, you shouldn't be standing out here—"

"Oh stop, it's not as if I were standing out here naked—"

Her face went pale before turning the most delicious (and brightest) shade of red he had ever seen. Just as it took every ounce of willpower to not throw a punch at Major Bryant earlier, so did it take every ounce to suppress the heated groan in his throat that threatened to burst due to the erotic image she had accidently brought up.

"I...well, um…I mean, I'm perfectly fine, I have a shawl, as you can see—" she made an effort of show off her shawl by tightening it around her body, but her eyes never lingered for very long with his, for fear of blushing even brighter. "Anyway, I'm perfectly fine! That is what I meant to say and that…that is what I mean! So there!"

He bit his cheek once more to keep from chuckling. God she was beautiful; she was gorgeous when she was issuing commands, when her temper flared, when she was blushing, and when she was babbling in an effort to save face, like now. No other woman on this earth, not even the famous Lady Mary Crawley, could be more beautiful than his Sybil.

"Yes, milady," was all he said, not being able to hide his teasing smile, much to her embarrassment. He put on his hat and was about to climb in, when much to his surprise…Sybil had climbed in on the passenger's side…of the front seat!

"What are you doing?"

Sybil was trying to look haughty, with her nose up in the air; the last efforts of one trying to regain some dignity. "I thought since you were bringing the car around, I could ride to the front of the house with you."

But it wasn't her statement that had him dumbstruck; it was where she was sitting! "Alright…but…wouldn't you be more comfortable…in the back?"

Sybil frowned and looked around at the front seat, as if someone had told her there was something wrong with it. "No, I'm fine where I am."

Branson didn't miss the mischievous grin that she wore, and he gave her a solemn look of warning. As adorable and intriguing as he found her possible flirting to be, this was _still_ Downton Abbey and she was still the daughter of his _employer_. "Sybil…"

Sybil rolled her eyes at his tone, but instead of moving, folded her arms across her chest and put on a stubborn face. "For heaven's sake, Branson, it's just a short ride from the garage to the front of the house! It will take less than a minute! Where's the harm?" He opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off. "I take full responsibility, and if there are any questions to be had, I will explain them; after all, I am your 'white knight' am I not? Do you think I would let my 'damsel' fall into distress so easily?"

He couldn't help but smile at her words. Nor could he help that his heart leapt just slightly when she referred to him using the word "my". _Perhaps this whole idea to step back and let her take the lead is working? _ Although after his previous experiences, he knew better than to rush forward and fall to one knee. No, he would continue to bide his time…but he was feeling hopeful.

"Alright…" he sighed, pretending to be annoyed when he truly felt the opposite. He didn't want to give too much away. "But just this once!"

Sybil put on a sour expression. "Yes, milord," she answered with a horrible attempt at an Irish accent.

Branson couldn't help laughing. "Lord, I pray I don't sound like that!"

"Ha, ha," Sybil groaned, before rolling her eyes and poking out her tongue. She quickly drew her tongue back in as Branson climbed up onto his seat, and she sucked in a gasp at the sudden realization at just how close they were now.

_Like Gwen's wedding_, he mused, remembering how their legs had touched in that crowded church, so many Christmas' ago. "Ready, milady?" he asked, purposefully leaning close…so he could release the break lever.

Sybil swallowed and nodded her head, trying to desperately keep her hands still on her lap. He kept a stone face on the outside, but on the inside he was smirking. Was it possible that he was having an…_effect_…on her?

"Well, I must say, I have always wondered what it would be like, to travel up front," she murmured, attempting to make small talk as a way to possibly calm her nerves; he noticed that she was still fidgeting and trying to keep her hands still.

"Depends on who's driving," he answered, releasing the break and feeling the car move forward, causing Sybil to gasp and nearly reach over to clutch his arm. _Nearly._

He couldn't help but grin at her reaction. "Exactly," he laughed. "Now imagine your sister behind the wheel and you can picture me doing just what you did…only then you'd find indentations left on the door from my fingers!"

Sybil returned the smile and seemed to relax a little more as he began to drive the car away from the garage. "I didn't realize the front could be so windy!" He glanced over, wondering if he should slow down (even though he was going a little slower than normal) but to his relief, she was grinning quite broadly, clearly enjoying this new experience. "Oh, we must do this again!" she giggled, turning and smiling up at him. "On a much longer drive," she quickly added, even though he knew what she had meant. He couldn't deny that he had dreamed about the idea; her sitting up front with him, one hand on the wheel, while the other was wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her close to his side. Of course, in his dreams, he wasn't driving another man's car, but his own. And there was no one to tell him that they couldn't be like that…

"Perhaps one day, milady…" he softly murmured, turning his gaze back towards the road. But not before briefly catching a glimpse of her, turning to look at him when he spoke. Sybil opened her mouth to respond, but the car soon came to a stop, and she realized that the short-lived adventure of riding up front had come to an end.

The Dowager Countess was waiting on the front steps, her fur stole wrapped tightly around her, her gloved fingers gripping her cane, and her lips pursed together in her usual tight, haughty frown. _Time to resume the charade_, Branson thought as he leapt down from his seat, and moved quickly around to where Sybil sat to help her down.

Sybil, however, was already beginning to step down, but smiled at Branson when he stepped forward to offer her his hand, which she greatly took. "Thank you," she murmured with a beautiful smile, one that caused Branson's heart to leap a second time. He also noticed that her fingers were lingering, just slightly, in his hand.

"You're welcome," he replied, and then in a lower voice, whispered, "…Sybil."

Sybil's cheeks darkened and Branson watched with longing as her teeth bit her lower lip, as if to contain the giggle that threatened to break.

"Sybil!"

Both of their heads jerked up and their hands instantly fell away, as the Dowager Countess began to make her descent towards them.

"Yes, Granny?" Branson bit the inside of his cheek as Sybil turned her attentions to her grandmother, clearly hearing the slight hint of annoyance on her part.

"What were you doing, up there in the front of the car?" she demanded, her frown darkening with each step as she approached them.

"Oh don't worry, Granny; I was just curious about what it would be like to sit up front. It's all my doing; I bullied Branson into letting me. I didn't think there would be any harm when driving from the garage to the front of the house."

Branson was standing straight and tall by the car door, waiting to help the Dowager Countess, not moving his eyes to look at the exchange between grandmother and granddaughter. He didn't have to; he could imagine the sour expression of disapproval on the older woman's face.

"It's not becoming," Lady Grantham muttered.

Sybil let out a sigh which sounded more like a groan.

The Dowager Countess clicked her tongue. "And neither is that."

She then turned her attentions to Branson and gave him a stern look. "I trust you will not have _me_ riding up front with you?"

"Granny!"

"No, milady," he simply answered, keeping his face expression-free, even though it was so tempting to give in to the laughter of Sybil's embarrassed outburst.

"Good, at least some people still have sense," Lady Grantham grumbled, before offering her hand to Branson, which he obediently took to help her into the car.

After shutting the door, he went around to the driver's seat, keeping his gaze focused and steady and trying to appear as professional as possible. But he did catch Sybil's gaze, very briefly, and he did offer a tiny, cocky smile, as she rolled her eyes before returning a grin to him. Indeed, some would say _his_ White Knight defended him against the fiercest of dragons!

However, as the car began to pull away from the front of the house…he did notice the Dowager Countess' gaze remaining on Sybil, who was still standing at the front, watching the car leave. And he swallowed a nervous lump in his throat, as he noticed Lady Grantham's gaze narrow, not only into one of disapproval…but also perhaps one of…suspicion.


	81. Branson's Journal TYPEWRITER EDITION

_Hehehe, I really just wanted to do a chapter like this, showing off Branson's use of his new gadget :oP It sets up a few things for future chapters, but it's mainly a little bit of "image-writing" fun. While this chapter is very short, I am working on the next, and will hopefully have it posted by tomorrow at the latest._

_ALSO, I wrote a new story! It's my own contribution to all the Season 3 speculations: **Father of the Bride**; check it out!_

_AND THANK YOU for reading and commenting! I hope you enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Eighty-One<strong>

ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQURSTUVWXYZ

1234567890

QWERTYUIOP

ASDFGHJKL;

ZXCVBNM,.

THE JOURNAL OF TOM BRANSON

TYPEWRITER EDITION

MARCH 2, 1918

SO I AM FINALLY GOING TO USE THIS THING BECAUSE IF I DON;T

…

IF I DON,T

…

IF I DONT

…

DAMN IT HOW DO I MAKE AN APOSTRAPHE

…

OR A QUESTION MARK

…

THIS IS WHY I HAVE BEEN SO RELUCTANT TO USE THIS THING. BUT GWEN WROTE TO ME LAST WEEK DEMANDING TO KNOW HOW THE TYPEWRITER AND I ARE GETTING ON. SO I NEED TO START LEARNING HOW TO USE IT. BUT SO FAR IT HAS TAKEN ME AT LEAST AN HOUR JUST TO TYPE THIS MUCH.

SOME OF THE KEYS HAVE TO BE PUNCHED EXTRA HARD. FOR A NEW MODEL IT CERTAINLY ISN;T

…

IT ISN,T

…

IT IS NOT VERY GOOD.

…

WHERE CAN I GET TYPING LESSONS

…

WISH I KNEW HOW TO TYPE THE PUNCTUATION KEYS BESIDES , AND ; AND .

…

LORD I HAVE ALREADY USED UP AN ENTIRE SHEET OF PAPER

…

…

NEW SHEET. I AM VERY TEMPTED TO STOP AND JUST TAKE OUT MY PEN AND INKWELL BUT I NEED TO LEARN THIS IF I DO WANT TO ONE DAY BECOME A SERIOUS POLITICAL WRITER. GWEN IS RIGHT; ALL WRITERS ARE EXPECTED TO TYPE THESE DAYS SO I MUST TRAIN MYSELF AND DO LIKEWISE. I HAD NO IDEA IT WOULD TAKE ME THIS LONG TO TYPE JUST ONE SHEET OF PAPER. HOW DOES GWEN DO IT…INSERT QUESTION MARK

MAYBE I CAN NOW UNDERSTAND HOW OLD LADY GRANTHAM FEELS ABOUT NEW INVENTIONS. GOOD GOD THERE IS A FIRST, RELATING TO THE DOWAGER COUNTESS.

I WILL NEED TO BE MORE CAREFUL. I NOTICED HOW THREE DAYS AGO, SHE WAS WATCHING MY EXCHANGE WITH SYBIL AT THE FRONT OF THE HOUSE. I DID NOT LIKE THE WAY SHE LOOKED AT SYBIL AND I AM WORRIED. SYBIL DID NOT MENTION THE LOOK WHEN I SAW HER THE NEXT DAY. AS NICE AS IT WAS, I CAN NOT LET HER RIDE UP FRONT WITH ME AGAIN.

AT LEAST NOT ANY TIME IN THE NEAR FUTURE.

ETHEL CONTINUES TO UNLEASH HER ANGER ONTO ME FOR RUINING HER AND MAJOR BRYANT;S

…

THAT WILL HAVE TO DO UNTIL I LEARN WHERE THE BLOODY APOSTROPHE IS

…

FOR RUINING THEIR DRIVING EXCURSION. ETHEL IS FOOLING HERSELF IF SHE THINKS THE MAJOR CARES FOR HER. SHE IS JUST A PIECE OF SKIRT TO A GIT LIKE THAT.

HE IS NOT THE ONLY ONE. THERE ARE SEVERAL OFFICERS AT DOWNTON WHO NEED TO DO MORE THAN KEEP THEIR HANDS TO THEMSELVES. I HAVE SEEN THE WAY THEY LEER AT SOME OF THE HOUSEMAIDS AND NURSES ON STAFF. IF I EVER CATCH ONE OF THEM LOOKING AT ANNA OR DAISY LIKE THAT, I WILL GAUGE THEIR EYES OUT. IF I EVER CATCH ONE OF THEM LOOKING AT SYBIL LIKE THAT, THEY WILL WISH I HAD ONLY JUST GAUGED OUT THEIR EYES…INSERT THREATENING EXCLAMATION POINT

RECEIVED A LETTER FROM HOME YESTERDAY; MOTHER SAYS THAT SEAN IS DOING SO MUCH BETTER, IT WOULD BE EASY TO FORGET HE ONLY HAS THREE FINGERS ON HIS LEFT HAND. AS FOR FRANK, HE IS BEHAVING HIMSELF. HIS BRIEF STAY IN PRISON SEEMS TO HAVE LEFT AN IMPRESSION ON HIM AND HOPEFULLY HE WILL STOP BEING SO FOOLISH. ALTHOUGH MOTHER TELLS ME THERE IS TALK ABOUT ANOTHER POSSIBLE RISING. I CAN NOT HELP BUT WONDER IF MAYBE I SHOULD GO TO IRELAND AND LEND MY AID THIS TIME.

BUT THAT WOULD MEAN HAVING TO LEAVE SYBIL. AND WHILE I AM CONTINUING TO BE CAUTIOUS, I DO FEEL THAT THIS TIME...THINGS ARE CHANGING FOR THE BETTER.

I WILL HAVE TO THINK LONG AND HARD ABOUT WHAT I WANT TO DO.

AND WHAT I NEED TO DO.

LORD MY FINGERS ARE TIRED…INSERT EXHAUSTED EXCLAMATION POINT.

I HONESTLY DO NOT KNOW HOW GWEN DOES IT.

I AM VERY CLOSE TO THE END OF THIS THIRD SHEET OF PAPER SO I WILL STOP AND CONTINUE MY LESSONS ANOTHER DAY. I JUST LOOKED AT MY CLOCK AND CAN NOT BELIEVE IT HAS BEEN TWO HOURS, I DON'T

…

HOW DID I DO THAT, WHAT KEY DID I PUSH TO DO THAT ;,.;:/]=' THERE IT IS'''''''''''''

FINALLY, ONE MYSTERY SOLVED ''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

TOMORROW I WILL HOPEFULLY FIND THE QUESTION MARK OR THE EXCLAMATION POINT.


	82. 1918: A Letter to Gwen

_Thank you everyone! It was so funny and such a delight to read people's reviews from the last chapter-I'm glad you found it amusing...and who knows, maybe we'll see Branson and his typewriter again in the near future? ;o)_

_NOW we will finally get into some of the events of Episode 4 from Season 2, starting here. THANK YOU AGAIN to all the lovely reviews! Thank you also for reading and to all the people who have chosen to follow this story, it really is inspiring to see that people are enjoying this. Hope you enjoy this chapter too, and please leave a comment if you can!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Eighty-Two<strong>

Dear Gwen,

After a rather stressful few days, it was such a pleasure to come home from my shift at the hospital and find your letter! Even though I have been reassured that the "tide is turning", it seems that we have more patients now than we have had since the War began. Dr. Clarkson tries to put a "positive spin" on it, saying that this indeed is proof that England and her allies are winning, but I am struggling with finding the connection to which he speaks. Wouldn't it be the opposite? Do you understand what he means?

Anyway, as I said, because of this sudden influx of patients, I believe I have spent more hours at the Downton Hospital than at the convalescent home this week. There were two nights where I didn't even bother coming home, much to Mama's horror. I would have stayed a third, but Mama sent poor Branson to fetch me, even though it was well past midnight and he looked so tired. He has been spending a majority of his evenings using that typewriter you gave him last autumn. I don't know what it was that you said to him when he came to visit you, but something has truly…inspired him. He seems so determined—not that he wasn't before—but…I don't know what, but in some ways, he reminds me of Edith, who continues to blossom and shine as Downton's Convalescent Manager. Just as she has discovered this unique gift and talent…Branson has discovered something as well.

Oh, and Gwen, I…thank you. Thank you for…well, for keeping my secret, when he visited. I…I pray it wasn't too awkward for you.

…

…

Yes, well…I am to be given a small "reprieve" from my many hours at the hospital, and spend all day tomorrow here, at the convalescent home. Oh Lord, Gwen, I think I may have stunned Granny into perpetual silence, when the other night I made the comment about how I sometimes forget that Downton is also a house, and not just a convalescent home. In some ways, I suppose it was a miracle that she didn't faint from the horrified shock! But is true; in fact…I find that…I like it _more_ as it is now. I know that may sound strange, but…I just feel so useful and it's wonderful, seeing how all of us can do something for the good of others.

That isn't to say we don't have our share of problems, of course. Mama and Cousin Isobel continue to clash, only I fear it's gotten worse—_far worse._

As you know, Dr. Clarkson put both of them in charge of running the convalescent home. Of course, Mama, being the mistress of the house, sees it as _her_ main responsibility…whereas Cousin Isobel, the chairperson of the hospital, sees it as _hers_, because, like me, she sees Downton as just a convalescent home, too. Thank God for Edith, Gwen. While they bicker and argue, at least Edith is making sure things are running as smoothly as possible, as well as doing all she can to keep the men's spirits up.

Early this morning, before leaving for my shift, I came downstairs to see if Branson were there (I wanted to give him his own reprieve in having to drive me to the hospital, since he hasn't been getting much sleep and the weather, while cool, is nowhere near as cold as it was a few weeks ago, so I don't mind walking). However, before I came around the corner, I heard Mama's voice; she was talking to Mrs. Hughes, going over the daily schedule for the staff. Apparently one of the maids collapsed yesterday afternoon due to hunger! She's alright, but Mrs. Hughes and Mama were discussing their concern over how long the staff was waiting between luncheon and tea (much longer than before Downton's transformation) and Mama decided that the schedule would simply have to change.

I can see Mama's point, and I will even say I agree with it. But Lord, Gwen…I can only imagine how Cousin Isobel will take it. She thinks Mama is undermining her all the time! I have tried to reason with her, but she refuses to listen to me, and I fear she thinks I'm siding with Mama, because she's my mother. I made my presence known then, to Mama and Mrs. Hughes, and after Mrs. Hughes left, I tried to tell Mama that Cousin Isobel will be upset if she doesn't try to explain the situation to her before the decision is finalized…but Mama wouldn't listen. She said _"the servants are __my__ care and concern, not Isobel's! She will just have to deal with the change and understand at the end of the day, this is __my__ house!"_

Oh Gwen…I can only imagine the hurricane that will come upon us when they confront one another over this. I'm very tempted to beg Dr. Clarkson to give me a shift at the hospital tomorrow, just so I can avoid their confrontation. Don't be surprised if a newspaper mentions Downton being blown off the face of the earth! At least now you'll know the reason why.

As I said, thank God for Edith! She told me this evening, just before I retreated to my room to get some sleep, that she wants to put on a concert for the officers. I was a little surprised at first, but then I remembered how Edith tried so hard to plan something for them around Christmas and New Year's, that this made perfect sense that she would try to plan something again, especially now as the weather begins to warm and spring is making a return to Downton! I told her I thought that would be very nice, but that Cousin Isobel is really the best person to talk to. Her hopeful smile faded then, and she couldn't help but groan in frustration, before telling me how impossible Cousin Isobel can be at times, and how she seems to belittle Edith's efforts. She then told me she would speak with Mama about the idea, to which _I_ groaned. Just what we need; another thing for Mama and Cousin Isobel to clash over. Lord in your mercy, help us!

This concert Edith is talking about does sound quite nice; a sort of "talent show", if you will, where the officers and hospital staff can participate. I just hope I won't be expected to perform! My playing is mediocre at best, and when it comes to singing, I get the most horrible stage fright! Perhaps I can use my nursing as an excuse to stay out of it? You have a lovely voice, Gwen! Would you consider returning to Downton for one night to bless all the officers with your vocal talents? I wonder…can Branson sing? I just realized I've never heard him! I shouldn't make the assumption that he can, even though I have heard the stereotype that the Irish are very musical…and…and poetic…

Oh stop it, Gwen. I know you're giving me _that_ look, and possibly laughing at me. Not that I can blame you; I suppose my "love-sick hopelessness" is amusing, in the most pathetic of ways.

…

…

Anyway, how are the children? I wish I could have visited you too! Oh Gwen, will there be an opportunity for you to come and visit this spring? I hope so. I miss you so much, and it would be wonderful to see you again! Oh Lord, I just realized I haven't seen you, let alone spoken to you face to face, since your wedding! That is far too long; it must be corrected as soon as possible! Perhaps there can be a day where I can get some "time off"? Forgive me, Gwen, for my "aristocratic naïveté", but…I wonder what that's like? To work and get some "time off"? No doubt that sounds very stupid coming from me, but…oh, I just want to see you again! I miss you, my dear friend! And I'm so jealous that Branson got to see you and I had to stay here! (Yes, I confess, I did stamp my foot in a most childish manner just now).

Gwen, can I ask you something that…well, that is serious and may sound rather, personal? I feel at an utter loss, and don't know if I should go to Mrs. Hughes about it or not. But…when you were here, did…did any members of staff…_flirt_…with people above stairs?

…

…I'm _not_ talking about myself and Branson. But…well, I'll explain. Edith also told me, last night, that she is "concerned" about one of our housemaids, who seems to…_linger…_with one of the officers…a great deal. She didn't have to tell me who, because I have had my own suspicions for a while, as well. I just…is it harmless? Did this sort of thing…_happen_, a lot, when you were here? Or…should I be worried? I wonder, along with Edith, if something should be said to Mrs. Hughes, or Papa for that matter, but…then I worry that this poor woman will lose her position when I don't think she's entirely to blame. Her crime is foolishness, yes, but…I don't think that's worthy of losing a job over, do you? I just don't know what to do, because if she does lose her job over my "tattling", I could never forgive myself! And no doubt, he will continue to stay on and at most, receive a "slap on the wrist", and simply move onto to more foolish prey. Oh, it's infuriating, Gwen! The double-standard! Because he's a man, it's expected and easily forgiven, but because she's a woman (and a woman who works in service) she has to suffer and take all the blame, because "she should know better". Well, so should he! But does that stop him? Oh, if I had my way, I would…I would…I would kick him out myself! And I mean that, I would use all the strength I have, drag him by his wrists to the front door, and with my boot, literally kick him in the…_in the arse!_

Oh Gwen, I can't believe I said that! But…I don't care! I'm glad I did! (Yes, that would be Branson's influence, which I'm sure doesn't surprise you). But really, this man doesn't need our care anymore, he's perfectly fine, and yet he stays on and…oh, I can't stand him. I actually have asked several nurses to change shifts with me so I won't have to see to him. I know, that's a horrible thing to say, and very much goes against everything I was taught as a nurse, but…the man is insufferable!

Please, Gwen, any advice you can offer on what I should do would be most helpful. Thank you.

…

Mary just knocked to wish me goodnight. She also told me that Granny apparently wants to speak with her tomorrow, but she doesn't know what it could be about. She asked if I had any idea, but I am just as clueless. Mary wonders if it has something to do with Sir Richard Carlisle; she's convinced Granny can't stand him. Granny is not the only one, I'm afraid. Oh, I don't know if I would say I can't stand the man, but…I don't know, I just…there's something about him, Gwen, something that I don't trust…

Well, I _should_ get to bed; I am rather exhausted to be honest. Thank you again for your letter, and thank you also for any advice you can provide for my moral predicament. I wish you, Edward, and the children all the best in health and happiness! Write to me soon, Gwen! I miss you!

In dear friendship,

—Sybil


	83. Sybil's Diary XXI

_Here it is everyone! A diary entry that covers that famous scene where Branson tells Sybil he knows something about her...one where I'm sure many of us squealed at hearing it (at least I did!) I hope you enjoy! When writing this diary entry, I channeled all the teen romantic angst I could, trying to convey both Sybil's irritation...and anguish, at the possibility of being discovered. Hope you enjoy! AND THANKS FOR THE LOVELY COMMENTS! I'm so happy people are continuing to enjoy, especially since Season 3 is nearly upon us (at least for those of you in the UK). Please leave a comment if you can!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Eighty-Three<strong>

March 26, 1918

Absolutely…insufferable…BRANSON!

…

…

…

I…I…I'm just…I can't even…

…

…

…BLOODY BRANSON!

…

First Anna, then Edith came to my door, knocking and swearing they heard something crash and break. And…alright, so I did throw my diary across the room several times, one resulting with my biscuit jar being knocked off the table and smashing on the floor, but…IT'S ALL BRANSON'S FAULT!

…

…The last thing I need is for _Mary_ to come poking her nose in, wondering whatever is the matter. That's it, I don't care how many knocks I receive, I am NOT answering my door anymore this evening, and if they want to speak to me, well then, they can…they can break the bloody door down themselves!

…

…

It all started this morning, while I was retrieving linens in our convalescent supply cupboard, which just happens to be across from Mrs. Patmore's store cupboard. While I was down there, I overheard Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes; apparently they were discussing the upcoming concert Edith and the officers are planning, and Mrs. Patmore voiced something about _"are we sure we won't have any more trouble? You never know, with Mr. Branson…"_

To which Mrs. Hughes replied, _"I don't think he'll be a problem, Mrs. Patmore; after all, he did promise Mr. Carson to keep any disagreements or protests strictly to himself. And if Mr. Carson was convinced, then I see no reason why I shouldn't be as well."_

…

BRANSON PROMISED _CARSON_ TO "BEHAVE HIMSELF" WHILE HE…HE _REFUSED_ TO PROMISE _ME_ THE VERY SAME THING?

…

…

Good God, now _Mama_ knocked at my door! I told her to go away, and just…grumbled something about dropping my jewelry box…

…I really need to stop throwing my diary.

…

But I'm just…so angry at him! Ever since I learned the truth last summer, I have been BEGGING him to promise me that he won't do anything as foolish as what he was planning on doing to General Strutt…or ANY officer, for that matter! And yet, every time I tried to introduce the topic, or brought it up, he would laugh or chuckle or…or _smile in that way that he does_…DISTRACTING ME, the bloody bastard.

…Yes, that's right, I said bastard. BASTARD, BASTARD, BASTARD!

…Although, I don't mean that in the literal sense, of course, but…oh God, why am I even explaining this?

…

So…Branson can make a promise like that to Carson without a moment's hesitation, but when it comes to me…it's just some grand joke?

…

Alright, so…yes, Carson is his…manager, I suppose would be the best word, so he does need to make such promises if he wants to keep his job, but…but…well, damn it; _I'm the daughter of his employer!_ So…why can't he make such promises to me? Aren't I as good as his…boss?

…

Damn you, Branson, I _hate_ thinking like that, and YOU put those thoughts in my head! Alright, so I'm not his employer, but…I do mean _something_ to him, surely! I mean…I am his _friend_, aren't I? His…his best friend?

I mean…I was that, at least once.

…

…Of course, once upon a time, he asked me to marry him. So…does that mean he loves me? Does he love me? Still?

…

…

Oh God, I want to throw something so badly! And I would, if I knew it wouldn't bring someone to my door.

…

I just…it upset me so much when I heard Mrs. Hughes say that. That I…I just had to confront him, right at that moment! So I did, I marched out to that bloody garage, prepared to shout at him, to ask him if I meant nothing to him, that he would make promises to one person, but to someone like me, someone who thought she meant something to him, that he would just laugh in her face whenever she tried to get him to promise not to do anything so stupid that would cause him to lose his job, or worse, land him in prison…

…And God help me, I found him there, tinkering with some engine as he often does, and…and he was _singing._

SINGING!

…

…

…I've never heard him singing before.

…

I…he didn't know I was there…and…and I didn't dare interrupt him. He…he actually has…a very fine voice…

…

It was called, "My Lagan Love"; the song he was singing. I…I didn't catch all of the lyrics, but…I know that sometimes Irish ballads come from poetry, so I searched through Papa's library during one of my breaks, and eventually stumbled across a book of Irish poets, and…and found this:

_Where Lagan stream sings lullaby  
>There blows a lily fair<br>The twilight gleam is in her eye  
>The night is on her hair<br>And like a love-sick lennan-shee  
>She has my heart in thrall<br>Nor life I owe nor liberty  
>With love is lord of all.<em>

_And sometimes when the beetle's horn_  
><em>Hath lulled the eve to sleep<em>  
><em>I steal unto her shieling lorn<em>  
><em>And thru the dooring peep.<em>  
><em>There on the cricket's singing stone,<em>  
><em>She spares the bogwood fire,<em>  
><em>And hums in sad sweet undertones<em>  
><em>The song of heart's desire<em>

…

…It's very beautiful. And was even more beautiful…when I heard him singing it…

…

…

I must have made some sort of noise, because he suddenly turned around and looked at me, and I…I…made a COMPLETE IDIOT OF MYSELF, standing there, my mouth hanging open, while…various absurd sounds came out of my mouth, and…and he just looked at me, and then he…he SMIRKED at me! Oh God, how mortifying! And…and how dare he! When HE should be APOLOGIZING to ME for…for not promising me something so basic, when he could promise Carson! And once I finally got myself together, I let him know exactly how upset I was!

…

…

…Alright, perhaps it wasn't quite like that. I…I didn't "let him have it", as I had originally planned. I blame his damned singing for catching me unprepared! But I did question him, and I did ask him why he could make such promises to Carson and not to me; and you know what he said?

_"I had my reasons."_

…

Honestly, what in God's name does that mean? What kind of an excuse is that? Oh, it infuriated me! I only wish I shown him how infuriating it was at the time. Oh, damn his singing!

…

And another thing…why…_why is he still here?_

I mean, I was prepared, after what happened last summer. I was prepared to…to let him go.

…

…Alright, perhaps not _completely_ prepared, but…but I had resolved myself to support him, to encourage him if needs be, if he should choose to follow his dreams back to Ireland, and to join the fight for his homeland's freedom. How many English girls are willing to say that? I mean, that's what I thought he was going to do! By the way he spoke last summer, and then…all the reading he's been doing, and the writing, and…and even the typing! I thought he was making preparations to leave Downton and pursue his dreams in politics. And…and as much as I hated the idea of him leaving, I told myself to put those selfish thoughts away, and to let him go, if that was what he wished…because God knows, nothing can come of anything if he stays!

BUT HE'S STILL HERE!

And I have been waiting…waiting every day since last summer for the announcement that he is leaving. Waking up each morning, telling myself to be prepared for the news, telling my emotions to shut up, and just…embrace this change that will surely come.

But the day passes, and there's no announcement. He keeps taking books out of the library, he keeps reading, making notes, and now he's typing various essays…for what purpose, I'm not sure, but…but he's _still_ here. Tinkering at the same car it seems, day in and day out! And I'm just so tired! Tired of waiting and wondering what will happen, if today is the day I will have to say goodbye?

…So…instead of unleashing my anger about why he couldn't make the same promise to me as he could to Carson, I…I confronted him about why he was still here. More or less…

I said to him, _"You won't be content to stay at Downton forever, will you? Tinkering away at an engine instead of fighting for freedom?" _ And while I was speaking…he had the audacity to look AMUSED! What on earth was so amusing about my questions? Oh, he's insufferable!

I don't know why I bothered, but I continued to question him about the matter. I had heard about another possible rising in Dublin (there, see Branson? I _DO_ PAY ATTENTION to what's going on in Ireland, without _you_ having to tell me!) And I more or less challenged him, asking why he hadn't joined the fight…to which he argued (in that _infuriating_ practical way of his) that he thought about it, but since the rising ended in _"six short, bloody weeks",_ it was not possible.

Practical; _I'm_ supposed to be the practical one, not Branson! He's the fiery, passionate one—not that I'm not passionate, but…oh sod it.

…

I don't know what else he muttered; I was torn between my irritation for him and…and…the way my silly heart does flip-flops whenever he speaks softly, or his voice deepens, causing that exasperating and sensual brogue of his to just…

…

…

DAMN HIS SINGING! OH, JUST…EVERYTHING! Why? Why does he have to be so…so…_so bloody BRANSON?_

…

…

…

But that wasn't the worst part…

_"The truth is…I'll stay at Downton until you want to run away with me."_

I was shocked. Oh God, not _that_ again. Please, we've been through this! It's not possible! And stop getting my hopes up by saying such things! So I told him to stop being so ridiculous, angry that he was going to force me to turn him down…again…which I honestly don't know if I have the strength to do a second time, but…but in a strange way, he saved me from having to do that, because…because what he said next truly sucked the air out of my lungs.

Oh God…I…I don't know how he found out, but…surely Gwen didn't say anything? No, she wouldn't do that. And I haven't told anyone else, not even Susan! I mean…I don't think I have been obvious…have I? Alright, yes, it is obvious that I admire him, that I…that I _like_ him, yes, but…surely all of my actions were seen as ones in friendship? Nothing more than that…or so I thought. But…he looked right at me, just as he was speaking in that low, deep voice, and murmured in such a way that if I hadn't been paying attention to the actual words, my legs would have buckled beneath me…

_"You're too scared to admit it, but you're in love with me."_

…

…

I…I…what do I do now?

My first thought was to deny it. "No…no, I'm not in love with you, you just think that because…because you're in love with me…" That was what I thought about saying, but…I couldn't. I couldn't even…

…

_Does_ he still love me? I mean, he told me he would stay at Downton until I decided to run away with him, but…is that the same as love? I mean, was he being sincere? The way he looked at me when he spoke, there was a light in his eyes, and I can't describe it, but…it reminded me of that amused expression he wore when I accused him of making promises to Carson when he couldn't make such promises to me…and when I challenged him about fighting for Ireland's freedom instead of tinkering with an engine. And every time I've come to see him, throughout the autumn and winter seasons, when I ask him what he's reading, or what he's writing, or even how his typing lessons are going…he's always looking at me with…with that damned amused smile! And…and I have no idea what he's thinking when he looks at me like that! Is he teasing me? Is he mocking me? Does he find my feelings for him comical? Was his declaration to stay until I was ready to run away with him meant to be a joke, before telling me that he's aware of how I feel? EVEN THOUGH HE BLOODY KNOWS NOTHING CAN COME OF IT?

…

Oh God, what do I do? Help me, please…I feel so…so…

…

…

In some ways, this is far worse than what happened in York. At least then I hadn't admitted to being in love with him. But now…

…

What should I say? How should I behave? I mean, in some ways, thank God for Mary; she saved me from having to respond to him right away, asking Branson for the motor…but then she had to LOOK at me as if I had done something wrong! She was speaking to Branson, but looking at _me_, her eyes just…full of accusation. And then she asked me if I wanted anything, and…I couldn't help it, her voice just sounded so patronizing, that I snapped at her and told her there was nothing in Ripon that she could get for me.

…Which is true, because what I do want is…is an answer on how to handle this horrible situation!

I mean, I can't go back there, certainly not anytime soon. At least not until I know what to say. But…but if I avoid him, he'll assume it is because I _am_ in love with him…which I am, but…but _he can't know that!_ And I'm not ready to go and see him again, I…oh damn it all, WHY DID THIS HAVE TO HAPPEN?

Why did I have to fall in love with such an insufferable, obnoxious, arrogant…passionate…idealistic…handsome…wonderful man, like Tom Branson? Why did the only other person I've ever met who sees me for how I want to be seen, who believes in me and encourages me and supports me in all my passions and…and who _understands_ me better than anyone else…why did that man have to be a working-class Irish socialist who also happens to be our family chauffeur? I mean, none of that matters to me, truly; he could be a chimney sweep for all I care! But…but it matters to everyone else; it matters to the world. And…and as much as I wish it were true, that the world is changing for the better…it's _not_ ready for _this_ sort of change.

…It's impossible.

…

…

Oh Branson, why couldn't you have followed your heart back to Ireland…instead of choosing to follow it by staying here…if that's true, and you still love me.

…

Oh God, I don't even know if I want that to be true. It would be so much easier to believe that he is mocking me, to despise him for that; at least then when he does leave, it will make the pain much easier to bear.

…But if he does love me _still_…and if he means it, that he's waiting until I am ready to go…

…

…

My heart says one thing, while everything else says another.

* * *

><p><em>The song "My Lagan Love" is a gorgeous Irish ballad, although it is unknown as to how old it is. The English translation is credited to Joseph Campbell, who "collected" it in 1903. I was looking for an Irish ballad for Sybil to hear Branson singing, and when I stumbled across this, I was floored by the lyrics, and thought, "that is such a Branson love song, about his pining love for Sybil". I highly recommend going to Youtube and giving it a listen, especially the version by Celtic Woman.<em>


	84. Branson's Journal IX

_The incident at the garage between Sybil and Branson continues, explored now from Branson's perspective. I hope you enjoy! After writing the last chapter, this one demanded to be written, so here it is! Now I will go work on "Father of the Bride". THANK YOU for reading! Please leave a comment; feedback truly helps and inspires and drives me to write more! _

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><p><strong>Chapter Eighty-Four<strong>

March 29, 1918

Three days…

That's how long it's been since Sybil and I have spoken…or since I've seen her, for that matter.

She used to come to the garage nearly every day; sometimes for a few minutes, sometimes for longer. Sometimes she would stand in the doorway, sometimes she would sit on the bench, or, as is her habit now, in one of his Lordship's cars…and she would ask me about what I was reading, what discoveries I had made…and lately, how my typing lessons were going. I didn't always know when she would pop by, but it was a rare day when she didn't, and that would only be because she had a long shift at the hospital.

But she hasn't darkened the door since…since I confronted her about…about what I _believe_ to be true.

…

…

Dare I repeat it now? Or am I fooling myself, believing in something that isn't really there, I just want it to be…?

…

No, no, I don't believe that. I've been biding my time, I did what I promised and took a step back. _She_ came to _me_—no, she's _been coming_ to me, ever since that incident last summer. And…every time she visited, no matter how long she was there…I was starting to see what I have long since hoped, but perhaps was too afraid to believe; that such a brilliant, free-spirited, beautiful woman…could love a git like me.

So yes, I will repeat what I said to her, those three days ago:

_ "You're too scared to admit it, but you're in love with me."_

…

…

If my sisters were here, they would box my ears if they had half the chance. I can just see Kathleen's eyes rolling, before muttering something like, "Brilliant strategy Tom; you're a regular Casanova. Did you expect her to swoon into your arms after a declaration like that?" Indeed, nothing wins a woman's affections like telling her she's a coward.

…

Alright, so maybe I shouldn't have put it quite like that. I didn't mean to sound so…arrogant (I'm rather embarrassed, actually), but…at the same time, I don't regret saying it, either. It _needed_ to be said…it just could have been said, better. _Much, much, better._

…Bloody brilliant Tom.

…

I wonder what Martin would say, if he had witnessed it? No doubt he would be laughing in my face, and in all honesty, I deserve it. But I'll repeat myself again…while I may wish to have said my words in a slightly different manner (and tone of voice)…I don't regret telling her that I know her feelings. Because…I do. And I'm not trying to sound arrogant or over-confident, God knows I'm shaking like a leaf out of fear right now, and her absence these past three days hasn't helped! But…I truly believe…_that she loves me._

…She must…otherwise…why would she seek me out as she does? Why would she beg me to stay, after what happened in York? Why would she keep all these secrets and protect me from her family? Why…why would she let her anger get the better of her? A woman who gets that angry at a man, as she showed me three days ago…that's a woman who feels _something_. Otherwise, she wouldn't give it two seconds thought!

She came upon me while I was singing (Lord, how much did she hear?) I had my back to her, and I heard the footsteps…but if it were anyone else coming to fetch me to order the motor, they wouldn't have hesitated to interrupt me. But not Sybil…

Like I said, I don't know how much she heard, but…she must have been standing there for quite some time, because I was nearing the end of my song before I finally turned around.

God, she's ravishing when she's flustered. And even though she didn't raise her voice to me, I could see the fire in her eyes, and the annoyance she clearly felt when she demanded to know why I never promised her I wouldn't stage another protest, the way I promised Mr. Carson. But…I had my reasons. And that was because…I didn't want to disappoint her, if I couldn't keep that promise.

I didn't want to take that risk, because…I know who I am, and yes, while I did make that promise to Mr. Carson, and I do want to do right by him as much as possible because I respect him, at the same time…if I must break my promise, I'd rather break it to him, than to her. I had to make that promise to him, of course; how could I not? The man had every right to sack me for what I nearly did, and he didn't. But…as I said, I know who I am. And while I can look back at my so-called protest, and see it as a childish pathetic prank and nothing more…I do know that if I saw injustice or oppression in some form, no matter how high ranking a person that may be…I can't guarantee that I will keep my mouth closed and not stage some sort of protest. But I can't say that to Mr. Carson, obviously. And that's why I couldn't promise Sybil what she wanted to hear—and to be honest, I like to think that she would be disappointed in me if I did. However, that doesn't help me right now, because she's angry with me for not making that promise with her when I made it someone else, despite my reasons.

…But she is still ravishing. And even though my touch would probably be the last thing she would want in such a moment…God almighty, she has no idea how tempting it was to kiss her then! Oh sweet Jesus; Sybil Crawley, you have no idea how hot you make my blood boil, do you? Even the most miniscule of gestures…a lift of the brow, a bite of the lip, a stomp of the foot…God, even thinking about it now makes me groan in want and need for her! I'm a doomed man…but then, I've been resigned to this fate for many years, now. And that day was the first day in…months? Years? The first day in a long time when the subject of…of our feelings for one another, and certainly my feelings for her, was reintroduced in this dance that we've been weaving since…perhaps since we first met.

Indeed, it was the first time since York…when I brought up the subject of running away together.

And while I know I could have phrased things better, I know it's true; she's afraid of facing that truth, that we love one another, and that I want to be with her just as much as…as I believe she wants to be with me. _As husband and wife._

…

…

God above, if I were writing this a year ago, I don't know if I could say that without immediately second-guessing myself. But…these past few months, everything just seems to be clearer. And the possibility…it feels so much more tangible than ever before! And I've seen the changes, not just in the world, but here too! I've seen them in Sybil! She's grown so much since when I met her, since that time in York, since last summer, even! She knows her heart, she knows her mind…she just needs to find the faith to give her the courage to accept what she already knows…and take that next step.

But it is a frightening step, I can attest to that. And that's why she's been absent these past three days.

I know she'll come back, eventually; and once again, I'm not trying to sound smug! I just…I know her. Just as she knows me. She and I are equals; two halves of the same whole—we were just born in different countries and come from different lifestyles. But other than that…we're the same. I just need to be patient…again. But I've been this patient for this long, and in truth, when I reflect on everything, I can see that my patience has done me more good in winning her affections than any hot-headed behavior I've displayed over the years. So…I just need to wait. Wait to see her face come around the corner, wait to hear her feet on the gravel path, wait to feel her presence, even if my back is turned.

…

…

There may be one small problem, however. And when I say small…I'm being sarcastic.

Lady Mary came upon us while I was making my "declaration" to Sybil. She wasn't standing nearby, in fact I don't even think she came from the house; she must have been walking about the grounds or something. She had come to order the car…and…and I don't think she heard me say anything to Sybil, but…I can't be positive.

Well, I suppose I can be positive that she didn't hear me tell Sybil that I believe she's in love with me and that the only reason I haven't left Downton is because of her, and that I won't leave until she agrees to leave with me and be my wife—if she had, I'd be writing this entry behind bars! But…that isn't to say that she didn't…observe…our rather "heated" conversation. Still…if she suspected something, would I still be here?

…

I drove Mrs. Crawley to the train station this afternoon; she's leaving the village, going to France to work with the Red Cross. Apparently, her Ladyship has "driven her away" because they did not appreciate her, or at least that was what I understood, based on her farewell conversations with Mr. Molesley and Mrs. Bird. I must admit, while the two of us never really talked, I did like Mrs. Crawley, and will be sad to see her leave. It was nice, having another progressive-minded person around, certainly one that kept old Lady Grantham on her toes! I wish her well…and God bless her endeavors.

I wonder what Sybil makes of all of it? She seemed to be close to Mrs. Crawley; they did spend a great deal of time together at the hospital. And I'm sure Sybil likes her for the same reasons I do. Was she upset by her leaving? Did she go to investigate if the rumors were true, that Mrs. Crawley was "driven away" by her Ladyship?

…Will she ever come back and tell me?

…

I know, I know, _patience_. It is a virtue, as Mother would always remind me. I just pray that I have enough left to tide me over, before I go mad with longing.

…

What am I saying? I'm _already_ mad with longing! I've been mad with longing ever since…probably ever since I first _met_ her. Because I know that I've been in love with her well before I admitted it to myself, five years ago.

…

…

Oh God…I know that it's been a long time since I've lifted a prayer up to you, and forgive me for the selfish nature of this prayer, but…help her, Lord; help her find the strength and the courage that she needs, that…that perhaps she's longing for. I know I have little to offer her, certainly nothing compared to a man like Lady Mary's beau, but…I love her, Lord. I love her so…so _fiercely_; I've never loved anyone as I love her. I've made my promises, and I will continue to make them; to cherish her, to protect her, to devote every waking minute to making her happy. And…while some would say that a true sign of love and devotion is accepting what the world thinks, that I'm too far beneath her and that she deserves better…I…I don't think she would be happy—I don't think she could be happy, with anyone else. I know that sounds conceited, but…you know my heart. You know what I mean. I want her to be happy, more than anything…and I truly do believe that I can make her happy. Just as I know she can—and _does_, make me happy. So please…help her as she faces these fears; help her as she continues to grow into the incredible woman that is and has become.

Thank you…


	85. Sisterly Advice

_Hello! Sorry about the wait; after my marathon of writing to complete "Father of the Bride" over the weekend, I needed a break; but I'm happy to now have the latest installment to "Love's Journey" and hope you enjoy it._

_As an American, I won't get S3 until January; however I have seen some clips from the first episode and like many of you...MELTING IN EMOTION! But I'm going to try and be careful with how much I take in, just because I don't want to think about S3 plotlines too much, while writing about events from the previous season. _

_ANYWAY, thank you for reading, and please leave a comment if you can! THANKS!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eighty-Five<strong>

Three days…

That was how long it had been since she had seen or spoken to Branson. For three straight days she avoided the garage, she avoided going outside unless it was absolutely necessary, and she certainly avoided the servant's hall at all costs. If an item needed to collected from the nurses' store cupboard downstairs, she would beg another nurse to go and fetch it, making up some lie that she was "busy doing this or that". Sybil could just roll her eyes at how stupid and cowardly it was making her appear.

_I can't do what I did last summer; I can't pretend that he's not here, and avoid him completely._ Heaven forbid they should have a repeat of their emotional rows from last July. Besides, this was a much different scenario; he had confronted her when she had gone to confront him, and he told her that he knew…

She was in love with him.

And she was; but what was he expecting her to do? To say "yes!" and then fall into his arms? To throw her arms around him, stand on her tip toes, and kiss him?

Sybil gasped and felt her cheeks burn at the thought.

_He said he's staying until I decide to run away with him…_

It wasn't the first time she replayed that line over and over in her head. And it also wasn't the first time she nearly dropped something on the floor for thinking about it.

Good God, she could see it now. Her father, alerting the police and organizing a mob, complete with pitchforks and bloodhounds, running in every direction to find her and bring her back, while doing who knows what to poor Branson.

How could he say something like that to her? Didn't he understand the consequences? Didn't he see that it was impossible? They had been through this before, when he had taken her to York, for heaven's sake!_ I honestly don't know if I should feel upset or elated; is it possible that…that he _still_ feels that way? _

No, no, she couldn't think about that, she _shouldn't_ think about that! What she _needed_ to do was make up her mind about how to approach him next. Of course she couldn't say, _"yes, Branson, I _do_ love you and I want to run away with you," _no matter how appealing the idea was, or how it caused her heart to throb and her body to tingle. But she would have to see him eventually; otherwise her absence would just further continue to confirm his statement, and while she honestly didn't think she could stand before him and tell him he was wrong about her feelings for him, she knew she couldn't encourage him into thinking she loved him.

So that afternoon, she made up her mind to go and find him and…just…pretend as if…nothing had happened.

_Brilliant, Sybil, bloody brilliant._ But what else could she do? It truly was the only idea she had, and looked like the best option, between telling him something that was untrue, and telling him something that was not possible.

However, it seemed that fate was playing a joke on her. Finally, just when she had mustered up the courage to go and confront him…he was gone. Apparently he had gone to take her cousin Isobel to the train station, before she departed for France to help the Red Cross.

Sybil was sad by this turn of events. If not for Cousin Isobel, she would not be a nurse! Also, she felt a special kinship with the woman, both because like her, Cousin Isobel was progressive in her thoughts and ideas, but also because they had worked so close together, not only at the hospital, but in the planning of the Convalescent Home. She wished her cousin had come to her before making her decision to leave. Yet Sybil assumed, sadly, that the whole reason she hadn't gone to her, not even to say goodbye, was because she believed Sybil would automatically side with her mother.

Perhaps that could be their topic of conversation, when she next saw Branson? It would certainly keep them...otherwise occupied…from discussing the preverbal "elephant in the room".

Of course, this would have to wait until tomorrow; Branson hadn't returned yet, and it was getting close to dinner. In her efforts to avoid Branson over the past three days, she had also avoided her family as well…in particular, her eldest sister.

Sybil couldn't shake how Mary had looked at when she found her and Branson talking. While she was sure that Mary must not have heard Branson (Papa hadn't stormed out and fired him on the spot if she had said anything), her sister was clearly suspicious about something, and Sybil hated it whenever Mary gave her "that look"; not only did it make her feel like a baby, but it also made her feel guilty for things she didn't believe she should feel guilty for. _Alright, so what if I'm in the love with our chauffeur? It's not as if I've done anything! We haven't kissed, we haven't climbed into the backseat of one of Papa's cars and…_

Her face flooded with color again. No…they hadn't done _anything_ of the sort…except in her most recent dreams, which certainly left her panting when she awoke.

No, she couldn't put off having dinner with her family anymore, either. It would be one thing if she were at the hospital, but because all of her shifts were at the Convalescent Home this week, she knew that it would only be a matter of time before her mother would barge in upon whatever she was doing, and literally drag her down to the dining room.

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad? Perhaps all her worries about her sister were for nothing? After all, wouldn't Mary have said something to her by now? Besides…Mary had _other things_ on her mind…which Sybil had only learned that morning by overhearing her father speak to her sister in a hushed voice.

Sybil had just finished putting on her jewelry for the evening when a knock came at her door. Her first thought was that it was Anna; sometimes she did need Anna's help when it came to putting on her fancier gowns, but tonight she had managed to dress herself, just as she had learned to do in York. But the door opened, and Sybil couldn't help but look a little surprised, as she saw her eldest sister enter the room, looking refined and elegant as always, and offering that secret smile that only a blessed few, like her, got to see.

"Ah, Anna said you were honoring us with your presence at dinner."

Sybil smiled back. She didn't realize until just then how much she missed having an opportunity to talk with her sister. Of course she herself was very busy, but at the same time, Mary was also keeping herself otherwise engaged with various matters…and Sybil wondered, after learning what she had heard this morning…how many more of these conversations, just the two of them…would they have?

Was _that_ why Mary had come looking for her now, before dinner?

"It's easier here than the hospital," Sybil softly chuckled. "I can always get changed back into my uniform if I need to." She played with her earrings and her necklace, waiting for Mary to speak next. Was Mary going to tell her what she had revealed to Papa? Sybil hated being the last to learn anything, and sometimes she felt she was. Why was that? Because she was the "baby" of the family?

Yet, at the same time, Sybil could not deny that there was an uncomfortable feeling, growing in the pit of her stomach, as Mary looked down at her nails, and then at her shoes. Why was she delaying?

"What were you talking to Branson about?"

Sybil froze. _Ah, so this isn't about Mary and Sir Richard…_

The uncomfortable feeling began to grow more and more.

"When I came into the yard?"

Damn, Mary was persistent! That shouldn't have been a surprise though, and Sybil knew it. She shouldn't be surprised that despite the three days that had passed, her sister hadn't forgotten her and Branson's "strange" encounter. And it was just like Mary to bring something like this up, when she knew her prey's guard was down.

"Nothing," she muttered, before quickly moving away from her mirror to her dressing table to retrieve her gloves.

_Nothing? _That's_ the best you can do? _Inside, Sybil was rolling her eyes at herself. _Brilliant, Sybil; yes, that will surely distract Mary and lead her off your trail!_

Even though she wasn't looking at Mary, Sybil could feel her sister's eyes on her. "Then why were you there?"

Was it the way in which her sister spoke? It _was_ a patronizing tone, reminiscent to the one she had used when she came upon her and Branson. Or was it the fact that Mary hadn't said anything about the rather _important_ news, regarding _her_ _own_ life? Whatever it was, Sybil retaliated with a bit of cheek, muttering, "Why were you there?"

"Because I was ordering the motor," she answered, a bit of a laugh in her voice. The amused tone did nothing to calm Sybil's annoyance. "That is why one talks to chauffeurs, isn't it? To plan journeys by road?"

Sybil wasn't sure if it were the obvious mockery in her sister's voice, or the snobbery in her answer. She felt the hair on the back of her neck bristle at the rather demeaning way Mary talked about Branson.

"He _is_ a person," she grumbled, trying her best to keep her frustration and annoyance at bay. "He can discuss other things," she defended.

"I'm sure he can…" Mary murmured, looking down as if to briefly admire her shoes, before lifting her eyes like a predator, ready to strike. "…But not with you."

It was a combination of so many things. The way in which Mary spoke to her, the accusation in her voice, the patronizing tone, the fact that she was confronting her about this _now_, three days after it had happened! The snobbish, dismissive way she spoke about Branson, about herself, and still, the fact that she hadn't said anything about her…_arrangement_, with Sir Richard Carlisle! All of these things had bubbled up inside her, like magma ready to explode from a volcano, that Sybil couldn't help it, she more or less, _did_ explode.

"What do you want from me?" Sybil snapped, her voice rising by the second. "Am I to see if Sir Richard Carlisle has a younger brother? One who's even richer than he is?"

Her retort clearly had shaken her sister, because Mary's predatory glare disappeared suddenly, replaced by one of confusion and shock. "Darling, what's the matter with you?"

_What's the matter with _me?_ Oh Mary, how like you to turn it around and pin it on someone else!_

"I'm on your side!"

Those last few words truly pushed Sybil over the edge, because despite their sweet, sisterly, affectionate assurance, Sybil didn't feel like Mary…or anyone for that matter…was truly on _her_ side!

Which was exactly how she responded. "THEN _BE_ ON MY SIDE!"

Mary's dark eyes were wide, a look of horrified shock that her baby sister had yelled at her so. Sybil however, was not sorry for the retort. In fact, she felt quite liberated! And that was the problem with a volcano; once it exploded, it was hard to cease its flow.

"Good God, Sybil, what's gotten into you?"

"ME? What's gotten into _me?_" Sybil's voice was rising with each word, and Mary looked behind her, as if she were worried that someone would come barging in. "_I'm_ not the one accusing anyone of anything!"

Mary looked back at her with worry and confusion. "Accusing? Darling, I'm not accusing—"

"Oh really?" Sybil interrupted, smacking her gloves beside her hip in annoyance. "What do you call this? Coming in here, demanding to know what Branson and I were talking about?"

"I was just—"

"The tone of your voice! Even the very words that you used!" Sybil went on, her anger only kindling more and more. "You stand there and look at me with this high and mighty air, as if you were Granny, and speak to me as if I were a small child! But I'm NOT a child! And I don't deserve to be spoken to in such a manner, or treated as such!"

Mary continued to stare at her as if she were mad, which only infuriated Sybil more. All of the stress she had been feeling over the past few days, all of the worry about how to approach this latest development with Branson, all the heartache she was feeling, torn between what she wanted and the harsh reality of the world in which she lived…

It was all coming out; and her sister was the unlucky victim to receive it.

"How dare you stand there and judge me!"

Mary gasped. "Judge you? Sybil, what on earth—"

"Don't play the innocent, Mary, I'm not stupid!"

"Sybil, pipe down!" Mary hissed, glancing once more at the door behind her. "Good God; you need to calm down—"

"Don't tell me what to do!"

"I will if you keep raving like a mad woman!"

Sybil glared at her sister, whose predatory glare was beginning to resurface. Good; if she were going to have a proper fight, she'd prefer it if her adversary fought back.

Mary's eyes had narrowed, and Sybil could tell they were assessing her. No doubt Mary was trying to think what had come over her, and there was a part of Sybil that wanted to shout at herself for losing her temper. Because no doubt her sister was using her detective skills, and would soon find a connection between the mention of Branson's name, and Sybil's passionate outburst. And Sybil knew she couldn't stand there and shout that she was _completely_ innocent; that she wasn't hiding something—when the truth was the exact opposite.

_But Mary is _just_ as guilty!_ She turned to her sister and narrowed her own eyes, and before Mary could ask another question or complete her skills of deduction, she lifted her chin and accused, "Did you think that I wouldn't learn the truth? _Do you_ think that I'm stupid?"

Her assumption had been correct; Mary was caught off guard, and that shocked expression from earlier quickly returned. Sybil found a part of herself feeling guilty for causing that look, but the other part of her, the part that was frustrated and upset over…everything in all honesty, continued goading.

"Were you going to tell me about Sir Richard's proposal? Or was that going to be the topic of tonight's dinner conversation?"

Mary gasped, and Sybil swore the look on her sister's face was one of horror. Not exactly the best expression to wear when it came to the topic of marriage.

"How…how did you…?"

Sybil groaned and rolled her eyes. "I overheard you this morning; you and Papa. I was only a few feet away, pouring tea for a few of the officers—did I blend in with the scenery that much that you didn't even notice?" Mary simply gaped at her, still shocked by her revelation. Sybil had worn the same expression, and nearly dropped a teacup this morning when she heard her father mention how Sir Richard Carlisle had written to ask his permission, even though he had already proposed to Mary and in Sir Richard's eye, had more or less consented to marrying him. Of course, for Sybil this wasn't about whether or not Sir Richard and Mary had agreed to be married without seeking permission ahead of time; in Sybil's mind, the tradition was out of touch and old fashioned. Why must a man seek a father's permission before proposing to his intended? Did the father's opinion matter more than the bride's? Certainly not in Sybil's opinion…but then again, she knew that if a certain man went to seek her father's permission for _her hand_…it would not be granted, let alone considered!

But no, the thing that had shocked Sybil the most when she overheard her father was the revelation that Sir Richard had proposed when he had visited…_LAST SPRING!_

"I don't know why you're being so shy now," she grumbled. "He only proposed a year ago!"

Mary's mouth, which had been hanging open, quickly shut and she glared at Sybil, but Sybil merely lifted her chin and put on her own haughty look. "What you heard was a private conversation—"

"Are you actually going to stand there and lecture me about eavesdropping?"

Mary ignored her accusation. "If I want to marry Sir Richard Carlisle, then I will make that decision! I don't need you, or Papa, or Mama, or Granny breathing down my neck about the subject!"

Sybil lifted an eyebrow at Mary's words. "If?"

Mary groaned and rolled her eyes. "Oh Sybil—"

"I hate it when you do that!" Sybil hissed. "And you wonder why I complain about how you patronize me?"

"Well maybe it wouldn't be necessary if you didn't moan like a baby!"

"Perhaps if you stopped treating me like one, I wouldn't!"

The two sisters were glaring at each other, their eyes bright and their breathing labored from their arguing.

"Where…where is this coming from, Sybil?"

Sybil paled, and quickly turned her head away, afraid that her eyes would give something away, such as her feelings for a certain chauffeur. She needed to create a lie before Mary prodded further. "I'm always the last one to learn anything…"

Mary was surprised by her answer. "The last one…?" Sybil's brow furrowed as she saw her sister reach out and grip the nearby bedpost, as if trying to hold her balance. _What was that all about?_ While she was angry at her sister (well, perhaps not _entirely_ angry; after all, this was a culmination of many things), she didn't want to cause her physical distress.

"So…are you?"

Mary shook herself from whatever strange, nervous-looking stupor had taken control of her. "W-w-what?" she stammered.

"You said 'if', earlier," Sybil explained. "You said 'if you choose to marry Sir Richard'…which means you're considering it, but at the same time…it has been a year and you haven't said anything about it…so it makes me wonder if there's a reason to why you haven't—"

"Oh stop it!" Mary angrily hissed. "I don't need this from you, too! I take my share from Granny, Aunt Rosamond, and Papa, but I expect _more_ from you!"

Now it was Sybil's turn to be shaken by her sister's retort. Mary's eyes, which looked harsh and fierce, were also shining with unshed tears, and Sybil's guilt immediately began to eat away at her. It was clear as to what Mary was referring, even though his name hadn't been mentioned. And it continued to confirm what Sybil still suspected—that despite his engagement to Miss Swire, and the so-called "allure" to Sir Richard Carlisle's proposal—Mary was still in love with Matthew. At least so much so, that she was holding off on giving an absolute "yes" to marrying Sir Richard.

She looked down at her feet, unsure what to say next. An apology would probably be the proper thing to say…but there was still enough stubbornness within her over the whole "interrogation" about talking to Branson, that she wasn't ready to ask for forgiveness…at least not yet.

"In case you're curious," Mary spoke, her voice breaking the silence, and her words short and clipped. "I wrote Matthew a letter this afternoon, telling him about Sir Richard's proposal—_and _my acceptance," she added, causing Sybil to wince slightly. "Not that he needs it; I don't know why everyone insists that I tell Matthew about something that will not have any effect on him whatsoever," she grumbled. "The letter will go out in tomorrow's post."

Sybil bit her lip. "Mary…" What should she say? She was at an utter loss. "Mary I…it's—"

"None of your business?" she cut in. "You're right, it's not. But apparently everyone feels they have a right to tell _me_ how to conduct my affairs!"

Sybil clenched her jaw, her sympathy momentarily washing away. "Exactly," and with that, she turned and stalked towards the door, ready to leave the room and not caring if her sister followed.

But Mary did follow. In fact she reached out and gripped the handle of the door, preventing Sybil from leaving.

"Oh come now, Sybil!" she admonished. "The two are _completely_ different!"

Sybil's eyes widened, before narrowing. "Are they?"

"Of course! You can't honestly stand there and compare my decision on whether or not to accept Sir Richard Carlisle's proposal with…some improper conversation with the chauffeur?"

_"Improper conversation?"_ Sybil all but shrieked. "So talking with Branson is _improper_?"

Mary arched an eyebrow. "Depends on the topic…"

Sybil swallowed the lump in her throat…and then suddenly felt like laughing. The mad irony of it all! Little did Mary know that in truth, the two topics were more or less _identical_.

But she didn't laugh. She didn't even smile. Instead she fumed. "Does this mean all your conversations with Anna are improper?"

"What? Oh don't be ridiculous!"

"I'm not!" Sybil argued. "By your definition, the reason my conversation with Branson is improper is because he's a servant! But you have private conversations with Anna all the time—"

"Anna is a _woman_, Sybil!" Mary hissed, her hand now holding fast to Sybil's wrist and giving it a good, sharp tug. "Not some handsome, young man with an exotic accent!"

Sybil prayed that her willpower was strong enough to suppress her blush. So…Mary thought Branson was handsome too? If this were any other situation, she would laugh and perhaps ponder jealousy. But she was too upset by everything right now, and all she really wanted was to get away from everyone and have some peace to ponder her thoughts.

She yanked her wrist free from Mary's clutch, and wrenched the door free from her hold as well. "I'm going downstairs; I'm tired of this conversation, which is utterly pointless." She prayed she sounded dismissive enough; she was channeling her grandmother as best she could.

But she had not gone two steps before Mary grabbed her shoulder and hissed in her ear, "Just promise me you won't do anything stupid!"

Sybil didn't even bother turning back to look at her sister. She merely tugged her shoulder from her sister's grasp and began walking away, but not without muttering words that she knew she would later regret. "You mean like agreeing to marry a man whom I'm not even sure I love? No, I promise to not do anything _that_ stupid…"

And she left her stunned sister standing there, and didn't look at her for the rest the night.


	86. 1918: A Second Letter to Gwen

**Chapter Eighty-Six**

Dear Gwen,

I wanted to write you before you heard it from Anna; no doubt you'll think this is all your fault, when I swear to you it's not.

The cat is out of the bag, as my Nan would say. However in this sense, the cat is Mr. Bates and his mysterious whereabouts. Now let me reassure you that I _have kept_ your secret hidden; I haven't even said anything to Anna, let alone Mr. Carson or his Lordship. No, the truth came from Daisy of all people! But even she can't be blamed for this revelation, because she overheard Thomas and O'Brien talking about him! (Knowing the two of them, it was more like they were plotting against him).

Are you as confused as I was? It took no time for the gossip to spread like wildfire throughout the servant's quarters. Daisy said something to Mrs. Hughes in passing, assuming that she knew about Mr. Bates working at a pub somewhere, and of course Mrs. Hughes told Mr. Carson, who then demanded that Daisy reveal everything she knew…and that was when she admitted to overhearing Thomas.

Poor Daisy; it's amazing how not so long ago, back when you were here, that she fancied that git. Now she avoids him at all costs, because she sees his true colors, and he's been a right bully to her ever since he was given his so-called "authority" as acting sergent by Dr. Clarkson. I'll keep an eye out for her. She reminds me of my sister Siobhan so much, and you know how I can't stand bullies.

But I'm sure you're wondering like I was; how did Thomas learn the truth? Well, apparently he had a friend (if you can believe that) from his time in the army, who stopped by the pub where Mr. Bates works, and asked the man for his name. This so-called friend, remembered how Thomas grumbled about Mr. Bates, and asked him if it were possible that the two men could be the same person. In some ways, you would wonder why Thomas even cares; after all, he worked so hard with O'Brien to see Mr. Bates leave, that you would think he would be delighted to know that Bates is someplace else. But I finally learned the village where the pub resides, the one detail you didn't know: Kirby-Moorside. That's not too far away, but it's not just next door, either. Still, Kirby-Moorside is much closer to Downton than London, and I'm sure that's what has Thomas spooked; his Lordship still hasn't replaced Mr. Lang, and even though Thomas talks a good game about enjoying his "freedom" outside of service…I still think he wants the job, and I still think he's worried that Mr. Bates will return, and take the possible seat of power from him.

It's amazing, really. Gwen, you are ten times braver than a man like Thomas ever will be; you pursued your dream, you left service, you found happiness in a life beyond it. Thomas, for all his bulk and bluster about not having to follow Mr. Carson's orders, still can't keep away from the Servant's Hall. Some things, it seems, will never change.

Lord, how I wish I were a fly on the wall when Mr. Carson summoned Thomas to tell him and his Lordship everything he knew! Oh, that would have been priceless! No doubt the snake would have some card up his sleeve to slither out from being punished for his secrets, but how I would long to see him squirm uncomfortably under their questioning glares.

But of course the question that I'm sure you're wondering, as have I been since the news was revealed, is what does Anna make of all this?

The truth is I haven't seen her. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes have tried to be as discreet as possible, however that doesn't stop the kitchen maids from gossiping like a bunch of chickens in a henhouse. Don't worry, though; I'm sure Mrs. Hughes will explain to her carefully how the news was learned, and she won't blame you at all. Truly, Gwen, you have nothing to worry about; you did nothing wrong when you told me the truth, and I kept my promise to keep your secret safe.

Of course…I must confess, now that the truth is out about Mr. Bates' whereabouts, I'm hopeful to learn perhaps _why_ he's back in Yorkshire…and if he'll be returning to Downton soon. I hope so, for Anna's sake. Well, for all our sakes, really. We need more level-headed people around here; the place has gone to pieces since you left, Gwen, but I'm sure you already knew that.

That's the biggest news that's happened here.

The Convalescent Home continues as usual. Mrs. Crawley has left; apparently she felt underappreciated, and has gone to serve the Red Cross in France. This has left Mr. Molesley and Mrs. Bird with little to do, so Mr. Molesley has volunteered to serve as an interim valet for his Lordship, until he decides to hire a new one. I'm sure, like I told you, that he's waiting for Bates' return, and now that he knows where Mr. Bates is, I wouldn't be surprised within the next day or two to receive a summons to drive him to Kirby-Moorside.

I continue my typing lessons; the extra piece of paper you'll find in this envelope shows you how far I've come. Thank God I discovered a few of the punctuation keys! I must admit, Gwen, I don't know how you do it; how you know what key to push to get something as simple as quotation marks! And what do you do when you make a mistake? It's not like you can hit a few keys and go back in time to erase what you've typed by the simple push of a button. How do writers do it? How are they taken seriously by editors and publishers if their work has errors on it? Or is that the point? Are they just so…flawless, by that point, that there are no errors? Lord, my typing is a long way from being like that. Please, if you have any tips you can supply, I would greatly appreciate them.

Speaking of…advice…Gwen, as…as a woman, I…I wonder…that is, I wonder…what does it mean…when…when you _know_ something, but…but avoid the topic?

Good Lord, that made no sense, did it? Alright, what I'm trying to ask is…did you ever know something to be true, but passionately denied it, because…because you didn't want anyone else to know the truth?

…Did that make any sense?

Alright, um…there's a lad here, at the house. And…he likes a girl. Alright, I would say it's stronger than "like", but…anyway, he likes her and he's very positive she likes him…so much so that he confronted her about it, and told her he knew the truth. But the girl panicked. She didn't deny that he was right, but at the same time, she didn't say anything to confirm it. Now, he's very sure…for the most part…that she truly does like him, just as much as he likes her. But she's…hesitant to agree. She's not avoiding him, not…not completely…but…when he does see her, it's fleeting, and a great deal is left unspoken. And he's trying, Gwen, he's trying so hard not to push her, because he tried that once, and it did little good. So he's backed off, he's letting her come to him, and it has been working, but…he had to tell her the truth, or at least the truth he knew in his heart. To say that this had made things awkward is an understatement, but I don't regret it! As I said, it needed to be said, and I'm glad I told her, I just…now what? What do I do now? What's the next step? I mean, forgive me for prying, but…if I remember correctly, your husband, Edward, pursued you, and you were a little hesitant at first, when he asked to court you. Why were you so hesitant? When did you realize that you had feelings for him, and what did you do then? Did you try to put things off? Or did you go to him right away? I know that's personal and none of my business, and I apologize for that Gwen, but…I'm getting desperate. I—

I mean _HE'S_ getting desperate! My…_friend_. He's…he's desperate. And…wanted some advice from a woman, and I told him I would ask you in my next letter…

…

…

Right, so…there's that.

…

Lady Mary is engaged…apparently. To that newspaper man I drove up here, last spring. I suppose it isn't too surprising…after all, I believe that was her intention when she invited him…even though that was a year ago.

…

Yes, well…

…

How are Tommy and Annie? How is Edward? Have you been able to go back to work yet? Please, any news you can share with me is more than welcome!

Have you heard from William? I haven't had the chance to write; I don't really know how you send letters to the front. Daisy is feeling a bit anxious; apparently William was going to have some leave time, and had told her he would be coming to visit. Yet according to what Daisy said, he's late. Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore tell her not to worry, that this sort of thing happens all the time. Right, those are words that will make anyone feel better—do you detect my sarcasm? I was struck though, by her concern. I know that Daisy cares a great deal for William, that they are very good friends, but…I don't know, maybe she is coming around, like you thought? I know that you try to write to him when you can, so if you do know anything, please let me know and I will pass it onto Daisy to calm her. Thank you.

I better be sending this; it's quite late and I wouldn't be surprised if his Lordship does want to drive up to Kirby-Moorside to find that pub Mr. Bates is working at, tomorrow.

Blessings to you Gwen, as well as to your family. And thank you again, for any…advice…that you are able to offer. Both with the typing and…other things.

Affectionately,

—Tom

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><p><em>Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment, I love to hear from readers!<em>

_**ALSO**, on a completely different subject...I have a new fanfic idea brewing in my head. Check out my profile page and let me know what you think :oP It's something wild and crazy and appropriate for th Halloween season_


	87. Persuading One's Heart

_Ok, so in this chapter, I mention a book, and I have been wanting to use this book and incorporate it with the Sybil/Branson love story for...far too long. So I bring the book up *a lot* in this chapter, and there are a few spoilers for said book in the chapter, but none to the point where I give away the ending (although considering who the author is, you can guess how it ends) ;o) And that's as cryptic as I'll be; you want to know what the heck I'm talking about? READ THE CHAPTER! :oP_

_THANKS AS ALWAYS to the lovely readers and reviewers! Please, leave a review if you are able, I love to hear people's thoughts! Thank you again!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Eighty-Seven<strong>

It was very late, nearly two in the morning according to the clock on her mantle, and yet Sybil could not sleep. She was restless; she had gotten up and paced the floor, she had tried to sit at her desk and write another entry in her diary, she had even attempted to write a letter to her dear friend Susan, and yet none of those things were helping.

She was anxious.

She had seen him in the library that morning, returning another of her father's books. Surely he had read everything in there by now? She wanted to speak to him, but wasn't sure exactly what to say…so instead, she watched him from afar, watched as he returned the book, then signed the ledger, before casually flipping through its pages, as if inspecting other entries. Was he looking at any she had made? She craned her neck, wishing she could see from her hiding place what it was that had caught his interest. He was smiling! More than that, he was chuckling! But at what? She chewed on her bottom lip; perhaps she could wander in and say that she was fetching a book for one of the officers? No, he would see right through that. Oh blast it all, he had made this difficult!

Alright, that may not be entirely fair, she knew. They had spoken, since…well, since he confronted her about her feelings. She finally mustered up the courage after that horrible three-day absence, and went down to the garage, saying she needed a ride to the hospital to collect some items from Dr. Clarkson. She had steeled herself for that encounter, prepared to be mocked or ridiculed or for him to say more outrageous truths that she couldn't admit to, no matter how right he was.

But he did none of those things. He merely smiled at her, listened to her request, and then nodded his head with a simple "As you wish, milady," which immediately made her toes curl inside her boots at the simple way his accent rolled over the syllables. She stood there for an awkward moment, surprised that he didn't say anything further, and he merely stood there and continued smiling back at her, while he wiped his hands with an oily rag. She swallowed and then gave a little curtsey, before quickly turning on her heel and exiting the garage before she made a further fool of herself. But she hadn't gone five paces, before she heard him call out after her, "It's good to see you again, milady…I missed you."

_He missed me. He missed me!_

She was at a loss. If truth be told, she had to reach out and grab hold of the doorframe, or else she was convinced she would have melted on the spot! She didn't dare turn around, for fear of what her eyes would reveal. So she merely turned her head, just a bit, and said over her shoulder, "It's good to see you too, Branson." She had missed him too, but she couldn't tell him that, not after he had said—

Well, she just couldn't.

Later that day, during their drive, she quickly took control of the conversation, talking with him about her sadness over Cousin Isobel's leaving; doing everything she could to keep the topic of conversation as far away from what they had last discussed. Yes, it was a cowardly thing to do, but in all honesty, she was at an utter loss on how to respond! _Well, not entirely_, she reminded herself. _You know what you should say and what's expected of you…you just don't want to._

All the days that followed, if she saw him, she made sure the visits were brief and the topics of conversation were as far removed from that last encounter as possible. She would ask after his typing, what new discoveries he had found in his reading, and even if the chance allowed, something in the realm of politics! But never about herself…or them.

But it was getting tricky. Because she could tell, even if he didn't say anything or broach the subject…she could tell he was thinking about it; it was obvious in his eyes.

In some ways, she could be thankful for the amount of shifts she was having at the hospital lately. It did mean that she would be much busier, and have less of a chance to talk to him. But that didn't make the drives to and from the hospital any easier. In fact, those were sometimes the most stressful, because it truly was just the two of them…and what could stop him from pulling the car over and turning around and demand that she answer him once and for all; did she or did she not love him?

Of course, Branson would never do such a thing; he may be a servant, but he was certainly more of a gentleman than most men she had encountered in life that dared to go by that title. No, Branson did no such thing, he would only ask her how her day was, smile at her as she spoke, and simply continue on their drive.

But she knew he was thinking about it. Was he thinking about it as much as she was? Did it cause him to lose sleep, to pace the floor as she was doing now? Did it affect his mood, the way it had affected hers? He seemed to be so…happy all the time! It was infuriating, really! Why was he in such a good mood? She hadn't given him an answer—was he just that sure of himself? _Serves him right if I say "no"_…of course, she knew deep down, she couldn't say that. She wasn't _that_ good of a liar.

Her mind wandered back to the library; after going through the ledger, his eyes returned to the shelves once more. He scanned them carefully, and then found the book he was looking for, ran his finger along its spine, before finally withdrawing it. He opened it, but she couldn't tell what it was. He flipped through the first few pages, his eyes scanning them, before finally closing the book and tucking it inside his left, breast pocket. He proceeded to lean over the ledger, sign it, and then without another look, turned and exited the library.

She quickly turned her back and pretended that she was busy doing…something…and only moved into the library when she was sure he had rounded a corner and disappeared down the corridor.

She flew to the ledger as if God had given her wings. She found his name and followed it across the page to see what book it was that he had taken…

Persuasion, by Jane Austen.

Branson was going to read something by Jane Austen? As far as she knew, North and South was the only novel he had read since arriving at Downton. He just wasn't the sort who read novels! And why Persuasion? Indeed, Jane Austen was a great writer, but all of her stories dealt with similar issues; issues on…romance.

She swallowed as she thought about the book. Of all of Jane Austen's novels, it was her favorite. She liked the heroine very much; Anne Elliot was sensible and kind; not frivolous like her two sisters, who were snobbish and greedy like their pompous father, Sir Walter. But what struck Sybil was the love story of Anne and Capt. Fredrick Wentworth. When the characters were younger, they had met and fallen in love. But Wentworth was poor, and in the eyes of Anne's family, unworthy to marry her. So they persuaded her to give him up and reject his proposal…

The lump in Sybil's throat seemed to be growing larger. She was having trouble breathing and needed some water, badly.

She moved to a glass pitcher nearby, and quickly poured herself a glass. No one seemed to notice the agitated looking nurse. Good, she wasn't prepared to explain herself, yet.

Her mind wandered back to the novel. Wentworth joined the Navy, where he not only became a hero during the Napoleonic Wars, but earned a great fortune. When the War was over, he returned to England, a decorated naval captain and a man whose fortune and reputation made him the ideal catch for any girl. But despite everything that had happened, Anne still loved Wentworth…and she regretted her actions, deeply.

Sybil rushed to her room then, not pausing to say anything to her colleagues; if they asked later, she would say she was feeling lightheaded, which wasn't too far from the truth. Upon arriving in her room, she scoured the shelves for her own copy of Persuasion. Once she found it, she plopped herself down on the bed and anxiously began thumbing through its pages, reacquainting herself with the story of Anne and Capt. Wentworth. Sybil remembered when she first read it, how sorry she felt for Anne, having to watch her beloved Fredrick return and look upon her with scorn and disappointment. Sybil remembered how the other girls of Anne's acquaintance flirted with Capt. Wentworth, causing her heart to break whenever he smiled or laughed with them. There were even times when Sybil was angry at the character of Wentworth, thinking him cruel and unkind to poor Anne; couldn't he see that she was devastated? Couldn't he see that she loved him, still, after all this time?

But what about Wentworth's side of the story?

Sybil had never thought about that. Austen's writing only followed the lives of her heroines, but that was no excuse for Sybil not to…imagine, what it may have been like for the heroes. What had it been like for him? Wentworth had fallen in love with this woman, he had asked for her hand in marriage, but because of his status in the eyes of "polite society", he was deemed unworthy and unfit. A great insult indeed to any man's ego; but how it must have hurt…to see the person you love…deny you, herself.

Hence the title of the novel; Anne had been persuaded to turn Wentworth's proposal down. Anne had been persuaded to cast him off, entirely! And she regrets it; throughout a bulk of the novel, Anne comes to the sad realization that her heartbreak is her punishment for her foolish actions.

Sybil dropped the book, as if she were holding a hot coal. A cold tear ran down her flushed cheek, and she quickly wiped it away. She shoved the book away from her, pushed it so hard that it went flying off her bed, across the room, skidding under her wardrobe.

She didn't dare fetch it. She didn't dare touch it at all.

She was numb throughout dinner. Edith remarked how she hadn't seen her during the rest of the afternoon, and she mumbled some sort of excuse about feeling lightheaded. Her mother looked at her with concern, and Sybil did her best to suppress a groan when her mother began to remark that she needed to take great care of herself, being around "all those sick men". Her family was nowhere near as horrid as the Elliot's, and yet there were times when they behaved or said things that just seemed utterly preposterous, and she wondered how they all must look to those that served and waited on them.

_I don't want to be like that…_

She excused herself, still feigning lightheadedness, and returned to her room where she paced back and forth for a while, before finally giving in and retrieving the book from under her wardrobe.

For several hours, she conducted a strange dance with the book. She would open it, read a few pages, and then quickly close it. She repeated this several times, before getting up and pacing the room once more.

Why had Branson picked that book? They had talked about books many times, but she didn't recall ever mentioning Persuasion. At least she could understand his reasons for wanting to read North and South; while there was a romance at the center of the story, it dealt with many fine and important issues about ethics, justice, and morality in society during the Victorian era. For a Socialist, North and South was a wonderful novel to read and review…but what socialist leanings were there in Persuasion? No doubt Branson could find some, he was very clever, but…what on earth would possess him to think that of all the novels on her father's shelves…_that book_ would be the one to conduct such a search?

Was she wrong? _Had_ he read it once? Was he aware of the story? It was so eerie in some respects, because the story seemed so similar too—

Her pacing increased with vigor.

Did Branson know that she was watching him? Had he purposefully chosen the book, knowing she would inspect the ledger? Oh God, was he…was he sending her some kind of message?

No, no…that couldn't be it. Branson was a very direct man; his job required him to be subtle and discreet, but when it came to her, as he had proven long ago, he would not hold himself back if he wished to confront her about something.

But…why? Oh God, she was going to go mad!

And so here she was…two in the morning, and still unable to sit and relax, much less lie down and get some sleep. Reading would do no good; in fact she was sure it would make things worse. Writing, be it a letter or in her diary, wasn't going to help either, and the problem with pacing was that it meant a person had little to do but think.

Was he reading the book now? Was he sitting in his cottage, reading the story of Anne and Wentworth, and laughing at the silliness of it all? Was he deconstructing it, pulling up all of its flaws—all of _her_ flaws? Was he nodding his head, thinking, "Good for you, Wentworth; she deserves that heartbreak after the hell you went through in declaring your heart to her…"

Was he…comparing _her_…to Anne Elliot?

…_Was she_ Anne Elliot?

"…_I'll stay at Downton until you want to run away with me…"_

Sybil paused in her pacing as his words returned to her memory once again.

"_You're too scared to admit it, but you're in love with me."_

Her family hadn't even had the chance to play the part of the Elliot's; _her own fear_ was persuading her to refuse him, to deny herself the chance to be happy, to bask and enjoy…_love_…with the only man she had ever known who stirred her heart and understood her mind better than anyone else.

She remembered her thoughts at dinner. _I don't want to be like that…_

At the time, she thought she didn't want to be like…well, like haughty aristocrats! But now, the words and the sentiment took on an entirely new meaning.

_I don't want to be like that…I don't want to be persuaded from my feelings, only to live a life of regret._

A gasp escaped her throat. She turned and looked at the door of her room…and then, without another second's thought, she grabbed her dressing gown, threw it over her shoulders, and clumsily tied it at her waist while she raced through the darkened halls of Downton Abbey, down the stairs, and without pausing to even think that her feet were bare and would be running across cold, wet grass, she went out the door and ran…ran as fast as she could, past the garage, to the adjoining cottage—where to her relief a light was still burning in a window. She didn't stop running until she was at the cottage door, her fist banging urgently upon its surface.

Within a matter of moments, Branson appeared; his eyes wide and his face pale at the sight of her. God knows how she looked, her hair wild and windswept down her back, her cheeks pink and glowing, and her chest rising and falling with panted breaths from her running. "Sybil?" he gasped, taking in the sight of her, his eyes seeming to widen as he realized she was standing there, alone, in the cold night, at his doorstep…in nothing but her nightclothes. "Good Lord, what is it? What's the mat—"

She stopped his words with the not-so gentle push of her lips.

Time seemed to freeze. She held his face in her hands, stood on her tip toes (he was actually much taller than he seemed, when she stood right next to him like this) and continued pressing her lips against his. She was inexperienced when it came to kissing…but that didn't matter; she had a feeling Branson—_Tom_, would be a most excellent teacher.

He was the first to break away and gasp. He stared back at her, his eyes wide with disbelief. She stared up at him, still holding his face, still pressing herself against him, only realizing just now that his chest was merely covered by a thin undershirt, one that left little to the imagination about his muscular frame.

"Sybil?" he managed to say, gazing back at her in both wonder and surprise.

She grinned and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Yes!"

"Yes?"

"Yes!" she repeated, feeling such freedom for saying that one, simple word. "Yes, Tom, yes…you're right, I _do_ love you…I'm not afraid anymore, I love you and I'm ready!"

His eyes kept looking into hers, as if he were trying to find some hidden answer in their depths, even though she had just shouted to the heavens her feelings.

"…You're ready?" he murmured, although much to her delight, she could see the realization dawning on him, the relieved smile forming on his face…and the wonderful feeling of his arms, beginning to encircle her.

"I am…" she whispered, lifting her mouth to his once more. "To go with you, to be with you…" her lips were only a breath away from his. "I'm ready to travel, and you're my ticket."

Her eyes were closed, her lips were pursed and she felt…

Air.

She opened her eyes, curious why she hadn't felt his…and then realized…she was in her room.

Birds were singing. And the sun was slowly beginning to rise over the horizon…

Morning. And she was in bed…the covers tangled around her legs.

Oh God…it had all been a dream!

She sat up, her eyes meeting her reflection in the mirror across the room. Her hair looked horrible, going every which way. Her face was flushed, and her eyes even looked a bit puffy…as if she had been crying. Oh how she wanted to cry now!

What a horrible…beautiful…dream.

It was tempting to throw her face down on the pillow and weep. Her mind and her heart had come together to play a cruel trick on her. Everything about that dream had been a lie, and not just the part where she had run to his cottage and told him "yes, I love you!" but…everything else. She realized this, as she glanced at her nightstand…and saw her half-open copy of Persuasion.

He hadn't gone to the library; he hadn't taken out the book. That was all a creation of her mind. She could go and check the ledger now, if she needed the proof, but the truth was…she did know. Because she remembered the day before so clearly now, in the cold light of dawn. She had been feeling poorly; several nurses had complained about a cold going around, and she felt that perhaps she was starting to come down with it too. She had gone upstairs to bed in the late afternoon to rest, and then she had excused herself early from dinner, feeling lightheaded from congested sinuses. She went upstairs, changed for bed, said her goodnights to Anna, and sat up reading.

She hadn't seen Tom—_Branson_, at all, yesterday.

Sybil untangled her feet from the sheets, and proceeded to rise. She changed into her uniform, splashed some cold water on her face, and quickly went to work combing the knots and tangles from her hair, wincing the whole time, before managing to pin it in some sort of bun. She laced up her boots, grabbed her apron and headscarf, and left the room. She needed to escape the house, and she was glad that no one in her family would be up yet.

She found herself on the grounds, surrounded by the sights and sounds of spring. A great blush colored her cheeks as she remembered how in her dream, she had run to his cottage. She was much braver in her dream than she was in reality; she kept herself as far away from that cottage as possible. But her intent for this early morning stroll had been to escape the house…_not_ her feelings. _I can't escape those; I don't even know if I want to, anymore._

And just like her dream, Branson's words began to haunt her, and not just the words he had spoken to her that day in the garage…but all his declarations; from telling her he had missed her (that _was_ true, her dream hadn't lied about that, thank heaven!) to his first proposal, outside her dormitory in York. And even before that, moments that showed her in the past, when she thought her feelings were nothing more than a belated-adolescent crush…that he was in love with her.

"…_I'll stay at Downton until you want to run away with me…"_

In her shock and anger, she had thought he had been mocking her, that day. But she knew better, now. Somehow…it was true. Somehow…like Fredrick Wentworth…despite the heartache she had caused—_was causing_ him—he _still_ wanted her. He _still_…loved her.

Or was that wishful thinking on her part?

She bit her lip and looked up at the sky. What should she do? It was a question she had been asking herself for quite some time now, especially since he told her that he was aware of her feelings. She could deny it over and over, but he knew the truth…and she knew that he knew, just by how he looked at her. Now it was the two of them, embarking on some strange dance.

But that still didn't answer her question: what should she do? Begin carrying on some secret affair, like Lady Chatterley's lover? No, she despised deceit, and he deserved better than that. So did she.

But by that same token, was she not deceiving…both of them, with her silence?

If only there was some way to express to him her feelings…without having to say the words, at least not yet. Yes, it sounded cowardly, but that wasn't her reason, at least not entirely, if she were honest. No, she needed to wait…wait until the moment was right. And she wasn't meaning in a "mood lighting" sense, but…when the moment was right for her to truly follow through, with what loving him would mean: a new life.

Loving a man like Tom Branson—and declaring such a love to the world, would certainly mean forging a new life, a life very different from the life she had grown up in. This was not something to rush into, as "unromantic" as that may sound to some. She mustn't be like Marianne Dashwood from Sense & Sensibility; even though Marianne was the younger sister, Sybil always identified more with Elinor.

_A new life…a life unlike Downton. A life where we will both have to work to put bread on our table, and keep a roof over our heads. A life where there will be no servants to care for us, to help us undress, to prepare our meals or clean our house. A life where I will no longer be Lady Sybil Crawley…but instead, Mrs. Sybil Branson._

Sybil's feet came to a stop, a heavy breath escaping her lungs. _Mrs. Sybil Branson_. It was the first time she had ever, truly, thought of herself as…as his wife.

…And for the first time, she didn't feel fear.

Maybe…it _was_ possible?

But she still needed time, as hard as that may be; especially since he had been waiting for…well, for quite some time! But she couldn't get his hopes up, not yet…or at least, not with blunt, direct words. No…she couldn't do that, but…she could perhaps…give him a hint?

A smile slowly swept across her face. She knew just what to do!

* * *

><p>It was the middle of the afternoon, when she finally had a moment to pop by the garage. He looked up, a smile of pleasant surprise spreading across his face as she entered. "I heard you had a cold?" he murmured, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her. "But you look well; was it all a ruse to have a lay in?" he joked.<p>

She giggled softly, but shook her head. "I was feeling under the weather yesterday, but I am doing much better today, thank you." She then held out her hand. "I can't stay long, but…I wanted to give you this."

Branson's brow furrowed as he took the item from her hands. "A book?"

"Yes, my own copy, so you don't have to worry about returning it to Papa's library."

He examined the cover. "Persuasion by Jane Austen," he read out loud. "I must confess, I've never read anything by her," he looked up at her, still looking confused, but smiling all the same. "Not the usual thing I read; but is it like North and South? Some 'hidden socialist propaganda', hiding between the pages?"

She laughed and shrugged her shoulders. "That would be giving it away."

He looked down at the book again, still smiling, although it was obvious he was confused by the offering. "Well…thank you. I…forgive me, but…is there a reason you wanted me to read this?"

"Oh come now, Branson…aren't you the one who's always telling me it's important to keep an open mind to new ideas?"

He scratched his head. "Aye, but…Jane Austen?"

"You'd be surprised about what you can learn from a Jane Austen novel," she murmured, a blush coloring her cheeks, but she quickly turned her head away before he could notice. "Besides, you're clever, I'm sure you will find something of value to scribble down in that journal of yours!"

And with that, she gave him a parting smile, and left him on his own with the book.

Now, as the saying went…the ball was in _his_ court, once more.


	88. Sybil's Diary XXII

_Wow, thanks everyone for the lovely and kind comments made for my last chapter! I'm very happy that the mention of Persuasion had a positive reaction, although I apologize for any confusion about what was dream and what was reality..and I know there were a few of you who wanted to strangle me for making that whole thing a dream ;o) :oP DON'T WORRY! In the words of Mrs. Potts, "it will all turn alright in the end!"_

_I know many of you are eagerly awaiting Branson's reaction to the book, and I'm brainstorming ideas on how to approach that; but in the meantime, here's another diary entry from Sybil-just to clear up any confusion, this entry takes place on the same day she gave Branson the book, just obviously later in the evening. Hope you enjoy and please continue to share your thoughts! THANKS!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eighty-Eight<strong>

April 11, 1918

INSUFFERABLE!

ABSOLUTELY…COMPLETELY…INSUFFERABLE!

I am in a house surrounded by…by…BLOODY INSUFFERABLE…BUSYBODIES!

…

…

Oh God, I want to…I am so tempted to just…THROW this thing across the room, _again_, but I know that if I do that, I will risk breaking something and then they will all be upon me and I really don't want to talk to ANYONE right now. _Especially_ Mary…

My feud with Mary continues; we are barely speaking, even though our "argument" took place a little over a week ago. I admit, it's all very silly, and yes, I _do_ regret my words and actions…but…every time I meet her eyes, be it across the table or somewhere else in the house, I just…my stubbornness kicks in, and I find I can't bear to sit in the same room and talk to her, beyond occasional comments about the weather. And it's not just me; clearly my words about Sir Richard Carlisle left their mark—for several days she wouldn't even look me in the eye! But after tonight…I don't know if I can look at her without turning red with embarrassment…or sheer anger!

Dinner tonight was an utter…DISASTER, to say the least!

It all started when Granny just…_casually_ asked what I was up to. I remember thinking "what a strange question; she knows perfectly well how I spend my days!" but I merely replied with an equally casual answer, "Nothing much."

And that was when the bomb fell. She leaned over the table, as if she had a great secret to share, and said in a loud enough voice for all to hear if they so wished, _"Mary and I were talking about you the other day…"_

Oh really?

Mary, my dear, beloved sister…who claims to be _"on my side",_ was talking about _me_ with Granny? I felt my stomach drop with every word.

"Oh?" That was all I could say! Lord, I was so taken aback by the statement, that I just…I was utterly speechless save for that one little word!

I looked over at Mary, whose eyes were just as wide as mine, and she was shaking her head, trying to look surprised and "innocent", when I know better.

So, she has found a way to have her revenge on me, I suppose? Talk about me with Granny? Tell her all about my so-called "improper" conversation with Branson? Because what else could it be when I look back at Granny's words!

_"Yes, you see sometimes, in war, one can make friendships that aren't quite…'appropriate'…and can be awkward, you know, later on." _

Good God in heaven! Oh I could just…ugh!

_Later on?_ Pardon me, but WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS SHE TALKING ABOUT?

…

As if I have to ask, I _know_ what she's talking about, but…oh it's so infuriating!

But Granny being Granny wasn't done there, of course. No, she had more _lovely_ advice to dispense!

_"I mean we've all done it. I just want you to be on your guard."_

Oh Lord…I swear, if she weren't my grandmother…_and_ if we weren't surrounded by others, I would…I would be so tempted to…to just…

…DO WHAT BRANSON WANTED TO DO TO GENERAL STRUTT AND DUMP A BUCKET OF SLOP ALL OVER HER BLOODY HEAD!

…

…_AND_ MARY'S HEAD FOR THAT MATTER! ALL OF THEM, _THE WHOLE BLOODY LOT OF THEM!_

…

…

…

I honestly don't know how I managed to keep myself from doing that. It truly is a miracle, and both Granny and Mary should thank their lucky stars that I restrained myself from doing so.

…

I wanted to shout, to scream, to…to swear! I wanted to shock them all and throw those insults back at them! How dare they…I mean, really, _how dare they!_

How dare Granny attack me and tell me…who is "appropriate" for me to be friends with! HOW DARE SHE IMPLY THAT…THAT I'VE BEEN DOING…DOING SOMETHING I SHOULDN'T!

…

…

I MEAN, I HAVEN'T!

…

…Even if I've wanted to. BUT I HAVEN'T DONE _ANYTHING!_ And I _certainly_ haven't done anything to be ashamed of!

Branson is my friend…he will ALWAYS be my friend, no matter what, even if he…even if he leaves Downton and despises me for the rest of our lives…despite that, I would _still_ think of him, at the very least, as my very dear friend. My _best friend_…whom I deeply love, even though…even though in the eyes of people like Granny and Mary and…and THE WHOLE OF BLOODY SOCIETY…I shouldn't.

…

…

I have never felt so…so insulted. Oh God, and now I'm crying!

…

…

There; better now—at least for the moment.

Branson was my friend long before the War started; has Granny only just noticed? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised; she's too busy looking down her nose at the world!

…

Alright, perhaps that's a bit unfair, but…I'm just…so angry! Branson is not some…some _whim!_ He's a person, damn it! A good, honest, hard-working man, who deserves more respect than a dismissive remark, about being deemed "inappropriate". First Mary, and now Granny! What's next? Papa? Mama? EDITH?

No, no, I don't think Edith would talk to me like that; she knows Branson, and after he taught her how to drive, she has come to respect him, greatly.

…Of course, I don't think that means she would look upon Branson as her friend, at least not the way I do. But…it's just so silly! These…these DIVIDES that we have! After going to York, after working beside girls who come from similar backgrounds as Gwen and other servant girls at Downton…my eyes have been opened! I wasn't _Lady_ Sybil there; I was Nurse Crawley, just as Susan was Nurse Vincent! Susan, who comes from a family of fishermen and boat builders; she and others were my _equals_ in that place, whereas back here, I'm sure Granny would be horrified at the idea of Susan and James sitting at the same table as us!

…

And why do we have so many bloody utensils at the table? Why does it matter which fork we use for our fish? Why so many different wines? Why so many courses! It's just all a horrible waste! And I don't just mean that because of the War, I mean…in general! Does it really matter? NO! Oh God, everything is just…SO INFURIATING!

…

…

…

Alright, I did give in then and throw my diary. But I threw it against my bed, and it thankfully landed atop my pillow, barely making a noise. But that doesn't matter; I do feel a little better for…just unleashing my fury, in that small, childish way.

…

I swear, I was…I was just so tempted to get up and leave the table then and there. But I didn't; I suppose my shock over the entire conversation got the better of me, and simply numbed me after the meal. I didn't linger in the drawing room, though; as soon as I was able, I left and retreated upstairs. I knew that if I stayed, I would lose my temper! As I said before, Granny should count her lucky stars!

Lord, it was so tempting…just, so tempting to run to his cottage and…and BEG HIM to take me away!

…

…

I didn't…obviously. And…and as much as my family annoys me right now, that's _not_ the reason I should leave…if I leave.

I mean, after my time in York, after working with patients both at the hospital and here, and even after all those conversations I've had with Branson in the past, I…I just…I am coming more and more to the realization that…I _can't_ live like this anymore.

I know I once said that to Branson, before we turned Downton into a convalescent home. I remember how he asked me if I would ever go back to how my life was before the War, and I had told him no…I could never go back to that, and I meant it. After everything I have done and everything I have seen and experienced…it's true. I can't go back to that life, and…and _I don't want to._

…

I…I honestly don't know if…if I'm ready to take such a large step as…as running away with him, but…but I _am_ considering it.

…I suppose I have been considering it ever since my walk around the grounds this morning…or ever since my dream, last night…or perhaps, even before then…perhaps when Branson first proposed to me in York…?

…Yes, perhaps even then, a part of me was considering it.

…

I still want to be careful, though. I…I want to be sure it's the right decision, not just for myself, but for him as well. He deserves that, because he's NOT a whim, despite what Granny implies. I…I _do_ love him, yes, but…but I would hate to see my love become something twisted, and turn into revulsion or worse, regret. That's why I can't say anything to him, not yet. That's why I gave him the book, because it's the closest thing I can do right now, even though a cynical part of me wonders if that was wise. But…I suppose I'm not telling him anything he hasn't _already_ figured out, am I? I'm just playing his game, so to speak; implying something that…deep down, we both know…but that can't be admitted to, at least not under the current circumstances.

…

Lord, it's all so frustrating! EVERYTHING!

I did stand up to Granny, to a point. Looking back, it wasn't much of a retort, but it was still a retort! I muttered, after she was done dispensing her "advice", "Appropriate for whom?"

Typical Granny; she immediately took the defensive position, trying to come across as the "reasonable" one, while I was being "over-sensitive".

_"Well, don't jump down my throat, dear; I'm only offering friendly advice."_

…Indeed, Granny needs to thank her lucky stars over and over; she has _no idea_ how close she came!

…

…

The only other thing I took from tonight's dinner was Papa's announcement that he is going to Kirby-Moorside tomorrow to see Bates! Apparently Bates is working at some public house there! I confess, my eyes flitted across the room to Anna, but she stood there, looking stoic and calm as always. Lord, I envy her; how does she do that?

What in heaven's name is Bates doing in Kirby-Moorside? I remember it came as quite shock when he resigned; Papa was certainly upset. And while Anna and I have never…discussed…her feelings for Bates, I know as well as probably everyone in that room, that she's in love with him, and I can only imagine how horrible it must have been to watch him leave. It's a nightmare I've certainly had, about Branson…

But I thought Bates had gone to London? What brings him back to Yorkshire? And why is he working in a pub, instead of coming back to Downton? Papa mentioned something about the two of them parting on bad terms, even going to the point of insisting it were his fault, but the conversation ended after that, due to the telephone ringing.

Well, for Anna's sake, I hope Papa is successful in bringing Bates back.

I suppose that means Branson will be gone for a bulk of tomorrow. No doubt he will be taking Papa to Kirby-Moorside; after all, Papa did say to Mama that if she wanted the motor, she could call up Pratt.

…

I wonder if he's had the opportunity to read any of Persuasion? I wonder what he thinks about it? I wonder…if he's made any "connections"? Or does he hate it? Was it wise of me to do that, to give him that book? He'll probably have no chance to read it tomorrow; perhaps he hasn't even started it yet? Oh God, did I do the right thing, in giving it to him? Or have I made things worse? I mean, I don't want to get his hopes up…or am I reading too much into it? I mean…he's never said the actual words, "I love you, Sybil"…

…_Does_ he still love me? He did say that he missed me, but…but is that the same as love?

…

Insufferable, infuriating…all of it! Oh, this would be all so much easier if we were like Bates and Anna. Well, maybe not the best comparison, considering the troubles they're facing, but…if we were like Susan and James; two people from the same place, and I don't mean Ireland…_although_, that is a factor to consider, as well.

Oh God, my head is throbbing!

I thought Love was supposed to make everything clearer? But I'm discovering that it is the most complex emotion, one that not only engages one's heart, but one's head as well! And it has a tendency to make things…_fuzzy_.

Just like that line, which Granny and Mary apparently insist upon, between "appropriate" and "inappropriate" friendships. To them it's clear…but to me, it's very, very fuzzy.

Yet, when I think about it…that line has _always_ been fuzzy to me.


	89. Branson's Journal X

_See? THIS is what feedback does, it inspires me to write more and post faster! :oP_

_Thanks for the lovely reviews! After Sybil's diary, it was time for a journal entry by Branson. He does touch on Persuasion a little bit in this chapter, but more will come down the road ;o) _

_Please keep sending comments and feedback! The next chapter should be Sybil's little confrontation with Mary, where she reveals what *really* happened in the garage with Branson...and after that, well...we'll get that famous scene between the two where he calls her on referring to them as "us" ;o) :oP Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eighty-Nine<strong>

April 12, 1918

Well, here I am, writing another entry, although not in the most usual of places. I'm sitting in his Lordship's car, in Kirby-Moorside, outside the pub where Mr. Bates apparently works. His Lordship has gone inside, with hopes to convince Bates to leave his current place of employment, and return to Downton. His Lordship told me, before we left this morning, to bring a good book; we could be here for a long time, he warned. Apparently, he's not going to leave Kirby-Moorside unless Bates is with him. So here I am, waiting for his Lordship to exit that pub with Bates in tow. And it's been over two hours…

Well, I did come prepared as his Lordship advised! Not only did I bring my journal, but I brought a good book; Sybil's recommendation: Persuasion by Miss Austen. All I know about the work of Jane Austen is that…well, to put it plainly, she's a writer of romance. Kathleen loved Pride and Prejudice; I remember her gushing about it when I still lived at home. I also remember Frank and me teasing her mercilessly about it; never understood girls' fascination with posh, stuck-up Mr. Darcy, but then again, I'm the last person to champion any posh landowner, no matter how "handsome or romantic" he may be. So…I can't deny, I had misgivings when Sybil gave me her book…but, she didn't steer me wrong when she recommended North and South, and she knows my reading tastes, so…I trust her reasons, whatever they may be, in recommending it.

I've only managed to read the first two chapters, but I'm…_intrigued_, I must say. So far I've been introduced to the kinds of people I want to see overthrown: Sir Walter Elliot and his spoiled children. It's bastards like him that think they can own the world and make anything happen at their beck and call, and yet have no understanding when it comes to…well, common sense! Is this why Sybil recommended the book? It's not like I need a reminder that I can't stand this snobbish prigs. Although I do like this one character, Anne; she's a daughter of Sir Walter's, and the only one in the entire lot that I don't hate. She's also the only one who has sense! In some ways…she reminds me of Sybil; not that my feelings against his Lordship and his family are anything like my feelings for the Elliot's, but…in my honest opinion, Sybil is the only one in the entire family who has "good sense". There have been mentions of this one character, by the name of Wentworth, who's some kind of naval captain. Apparently Anne's character knew him when she was younger, but I haven't really gotten to the heart of what that's all about. I'll keep reading; after all, I did say I was intrigued at the very least by this story.

While I have spent a bulk of my time today either driving or sitting in his Lordship's car, I can't deny that it has been an "eventful" day. It began this morning; I hadn't received word yesterday from his Lordship about going to Kirby-Moorside, but I knew it was coming. So I awoke early and was prepared just in case, which proved to pay off, since I did receive a message quite early from Mr. Carson, that as soon as his Lordship was finished his breakfast, he would want to leave.

It was during my own breakfast that I saw Anna, looking a bit distressed. My first thought was that it had to do with Bates; I know she was surprised when she learned that within a matter of hours, all of us below stairs knew of Mr. Bates' whereabouts in Kirby-Moorside. But surely she saw that as a good thing; the possibility of him returning to Downton! However, I soon learned the truth; she leaned across the table and hissed in my ear that Ethel had been sacked!

I can't deny I was shocked by this. I know Ethel has complained about working here, _many times_, and she and O'Brien continue their silent war against one another…not to mention that business with one of the officers. But…at the same time, I wouldn't have guessed that _I_ would outlast Ethel! Anna didn't know the reasons, and though she tried to learn why, Ethel wouldn't tell her. Anna even told me she was hoping to appeal to Mrs. Hughes, but even I know that's a lost cause.

I never thought I'd say this, but…poor Ethel. I feel sorry for her, I do. I can only guess what the cause was, and while it's easy to stand in judgment and say, "she got what was coming to her for her foolishness", at the same time, it's not right. Ethel and I were never friends, but…I don't like seeing women being hurt or taken advantage of, and that was certainly what happened between her and that officer. I don't remember his name, but…I swear, he best keep his distance, because if I do see him, I don't know if I can restrain myself from lashing out. No justice, whatsoever; he stays and probably gets a slap on the wrist at most, while Ethel loses her job, without a reference.

God bless Anna, though; she's still hopeful that she can turn Mrs. Hughes around and make her reconsider. She told me she would keep trying, even as I gathered my things to bring the car around for his Lordship.

But that wasn't all that happened this morning, before my leaving. As I said, the day was eventful. Thomas came downstairs, looking for some breakfast, even though he has his own food upstairs with the officers. He and O'Brien were muttering, before Anna sat down, about the possibility of Bates returning. I do hope for Anna's sake that Bates does comes back, but I also can't help but take pleasure out of seeing those two squirm. I pretended I wasn't listening as I ate my porridge, but I did catch O'Brien saying something about Mrs. Patmore; what on earth does she have against Mrs. Patmore? She muttered something about…stealing food? _Mrs. Patmore, stealing food?_ For what purpose? And why? If anyone is stealing food, it's Thomas, who can't keep out of the bloody place! He loves reminding all of us, especially Mr. Carson, that he's not a servant and doesn't have to take orders, and yet he continues to plague our lives down there! I have a right mind to go to Dr. Clarkson myself, and tell him to keep Thomas under lock and key. But really, why is Miss O'Brien complaining about Mrs. Patmore? And what makes her think Mrs. Patmore is stealing food? Is she _that_ desperate to target someone?

Daisy avoided the Servant's Hall while Thomas was there. When I get back I need to find her and reassure her that I'll make sure Thomas leaves her be; I meant what I said before—if he bullies her, even a little bit, his jaw will have an appointment with my fist! But even though Daisy kept herself to the kitchens, I did overhear her talking to Mrs. Hughes about her worries involving William.

In my letter to Gwen, I mentioned that William was given some leave, and had written to Daisy that he would be visiting Downton during that time. However, according to Daisy, this should have happened, meaning he should be here _by now_, and there's still no sign of him.

Daisy swears that William would have sent her word, if his leave were canceled. I know that everyone thinks she's over-worrying, but…I find myself agreeing with her. William _would_ have said something; he would have been heartbroken at the thought of missing a chance to see Daisy, and would have found some way to send her word if he couldn't make it.

Also…even though he didn't say anything to me, his Lordship did look a little…apprehensive. Daisy admitted to a few of us the other day that she approached Lady Edith about her worries, hoping that perhaps Lady Edith could speak with his Lordship, and see if he could find out what became of William, and Mr. Matthew for that matter, since the both of them were to have leave at the same time, according to what William had told Daisy in his last letter.

Did his Lordship learn something? Is _that_ why he looked apprehensive? Or…am I reading too much into it? Is it just worry about whether he can convince Bates to come back to Downton or not?

Poor Mr. Molesley; he's recently been filling in as his Lordship's valet, and it wouldn't surprise me if he's hoping to perhaps take the job on permanently.

I wonder how much longer this will take? The sun's beginning to set, and the drive back is a good three-quarter's of an hour.

…

I haven't seen Sybil at all today.

I barely saw her yesterday, except for when she gave me that book.

…

…

Was it…was it my imagination? I mean…when she came to the garage yesterday, there was something…I don't know how to put it, but…there was something…something just seemed…_different_, about her.

Or is that wishful thinking on my part? Wouldn't be the first time, but…I don't know.

Well, I'll leave my speculating for later, when I have more ink in my pen. Right now, I'll settle down and continue where I left off with Miss Anne Elliot. I wonder why the title is called Persuasion? Who is being persuaded? What is there to be persuaded about? I suppose I'll find out in time…


	90. An Unexpected Confession

_Normally when I write a chapter about a scene that we see in the show, I try to "expand" upon it, and add maybe a few more bits that we didnt' see (like a deleted extension to the scene). However, with this scene between Sybil and Mary, I didn't really feel anything needed to be "added on". In truth, when this scene took place in Episode 4 of Season 2, I remember finding Sybil's words rather intriguing, because I couldn't tell if she was being truthful to her sister, or if she was trying to cover up what she was really feeling. I think at the end of the day, it was a little of both. And it is interesting how Branson's words are "You're in love with me", when Sybil tells Mary "He says that he loves me..." I know I'm not the first to write and speculate over this (and I only took two courses of Psychology in college) but it is a fascinating exchange, and really makes me wonder "what was going on in Sybil's head?" So here are my thoughts on that scene! I hope you enjoy!_

_THANK YOU again for reading and for the comments! I want to say a very **special thank you to Sarah**, who signed her review as a guest; she said some very lovely things and I just want to say I am honored that my story was there to help when help was needed. And several readers have told me they are reading this while preparing for various papers/projects at school/university, and as a former college grad, boy can I relate! So goodluck to all of you!_

_ONE LAST THING...I posted a **new story** which is *very different* from what I have written in the past, but...it was an idea that wouldn't go away, so I wrote it down! My first "horror story": **Downton Abbey & Zombies **(inspired after watching season 2 of "The Walking Dead") I know this may not be everyone's cup of tea, but if you're willing, please give it a look and let me know what you think! OK! I've rambled enough..._

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><p><strong>Chapter Ninety<strong>

She was being followed.

Sybil rolled her eyes, as once again, she heard her sister's footsteps only a short distance behind her own.

It was funny, in a way. After their first argument, which had been well over a week, Mary had avoided her as much as possible. Even though Sybil didn't look at her throughout dinner that one evening, Mary made sure she was as far away as possible from her sister; even at the dinner table, Mary tried to sit in the furthest seat. Sybil knew her comment about Mary's acceptance of Sir Richard Carlisle's proposal was a cold blow, and it seemed as though the remark had left a deep scar on their relationship.

But then, after the dinner they had had last night, when Granny more or less announced that she was "aware" of an "inappropriate friendship" that Sybil was having, the shoe was on the other foot. Now it was Sybil who wanted to avoid Mary at all costs…but unlike their first argument, where Sybil obeyed Mary's silent wishes and did manage to stay out of her way…Mary was insisting on following her younger sister around; and if truth be told, it was getting quite annoying.

Honestly, if she wanted a shadow to follow her everywhere she went, she'd encourage Isis!

Oh of all the days, why couldn't she have had a shift at the hospital?

It began after breakfast, Mary following her. She tried to say something, but Sybil purposefully threw herself into her work, ignoring Mary's voice and talking with several of the officers nearby. She lifted her eyes briefly, saw Mary roll her own, and then disappear around a corner. Good! And she foolishly thought that would be the end of it.

But she was wrong.

Throughout the day, Mary would enter a room she was in, and try to get close. If Sybil saw her out of the corner of her eye, she would ignore her and throw herself into some other task, no matter how miniscule it was, she just needed to do something that made her look far too busy to speak with anyone who wasn't a member of hospital staff or a patient.

But Mary was persistent. And when another nurse asked Sybil to go downstairs to fetch some items from their store cupboard, Sybil realized, much to her annoyance, that Mary was following.

_You're being childish, you know,_ a voice in her head ridiculed. _If you just face her and get it over with, then you can move on!_

Yes, she knew that was what she should do; but she was just still…so angry, and hurt, by everything that Granny had said last night! And the idea that Mary was talking about her! Tattling on her for being friends with…with…

_With a man whom you know your family would _never_ approve of._

"Shut up!" she hissed to the cynical voice. It was one thing to take derision from her sister or grandmother; she would not tolerate it from her own self-doubt.

She quickened her steps down the stairs, and was happy to find the corridor where the nurses' store cupboard lay, unoccupied. Good, because she had a feeling that her shadow was going to try and approach her once more, and no matter how hard she may wish it, she also had a feeling she wouldn't be able to ignore the conversation any longer.

"Sybil?"

_Here we go._ She took a deep breath, trying her best to stay calm and keep herself from lashing out. At least Mary sounded repentant.

"I never said anything to Granny. Honestly."

_Oh really?_ She doubted that, highly. "Then why did she suddenly start talking about 'inappropriate friendships' out of nowhere?" Her voice, while it somehow managed to remain a great deal calmer than she thought possible, did have an icy, accusatory edge to it, one that dared her sister to argue the fact.

Was Mary going to deny it? Was she going to say that the conversation never took place? No, Mary would know better than to do that, she would be labeled a liar, of course. Was she going to actually apologize? Sybil doubted that; in her sister's eyes, she had done "nothing wrong". However, what Mary did say nearly caused Sybil to drop the supplies she was gathering.

"She thinks you must have a beau," Mary sighed. "And if we don't know about him, then you have to be keeping him secret."

Oh God, did EVERYONE know?

Was no secret sacred anymore?

Oh Lord…was…was Mary…_implying something?_

Sybil's mind raced back to that argument in her room, when Mary confronted seeing her talking with Branson.

_"What were you talking to Branson about? When I came into the yard?"_

_ "Nothing."_

_ "Then why were you there?"_

_ "Why were you there?"_

_ "Because I was ordering the motor; that is why one talks to chauffeurs, isn't it? To plan journeys by road?"_

_ "He is a person; he can discuss other things."_

_ "I'm sure he can…but not with you."_

It had only escalated from there; while Mary hadn't used the same words that Granny had, she had more or less declared the conversation "improper" because, as Sybil recalled, Branson was a _"handsome, young man with an exotic accent"._

So…was Mary implying that she was aware of her baby sister's attraction to the handsome chauffeur with the sensual Irish brogue?

"It's just Granny being Granny," Mary went on with another sigh of what could only be seen as annoyance. "Don't make such a thing of it."

Sybil paused once more, her eyes fixed on the supply drawers in front of her. Later, she would question herself over and over why she did what she did; she supposed it was because she was tired of always being looked upon and treated like a baby, a little lost lamb who didn't know any better. That all of her thoughts, be they about the clothes a woman could wear, to her political leanings on women and the vote, was simply nothing more than a passing "phase", one that she would one day grow out of; nothing that needed to be taken seriously.

_Tom is the only one who EVER took me seriously!_

That could be the only explanation to why Sybil said what she said to her sister…

"I don't deserve to be told off, not by her or by you," she muttered with an exasperated shake of the head. "Nothing's happened," she emphasized, shutting the drawer, as if declaring that the conversation was over.

Of course…it was far from it.

No sooner had she taken a few steps away from the supply drawers, she heard Mary's determined footsteps behind her.

"Why?" Mary asked, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one could hear. "What _might_ have happened?"

_Brilliant, Sybil, just…bloody brilliant!_

If she hadn't had a shadow before, she would certainly have one now!

But she hated deceit, she always had. And…perhaps that was another factor, which led her to reveal more than she ever thought she would to her sister, or anyone for that matter, on the subject.

"I mean it," Sybil groaned, still referring to what she had said earlier about "nothing happening". "We haven't kissed or anything!" _Save in my dreams_, but she wasn't going to say that! Despite this sudden rant of revelation, she hadn't completely lost her mind! "I don't think we've shaken hands."

_Oh Sybil, really?_

Alright, that was a lie…to a point. Well, no, they hadn't _shaken_ hands…holding hands and shaking hands were two completely different things!

_Now you're grasping at straws. Why don't you also inform your sister that you've never snuck out to the garage after everyone's gone to bed to give him a present from London? Or that you've exchanged secret letters over the years? Or that the two of you 'danced', in a manner of speaking, on the night of Gwen's wedding…or that he proposed to you, nearly two years ago, and that NOW you're actually considering it!_

"I'm not even sure if I like him like that…"

Another lie, of course, but she said it to pacify her sister, who no doubt was on the grips of having a panic attack. Thank the Lord she was walking in front of Mary; if Mary could see her face she would KNOW she was being lied to.

A different face suddenly filled her mind. Branson's face; his wonderful, handsome, face with that…that cock-sure smile of his that would be the most arrogant smile in the entire world, if it weren't for his damn charm!

"…He says I do, but I'm still not sure," she mumbled, more to herself really than to her sister.

Oh bloody Branson! When he revealed that he…well, that he _knew_ about her feelings, he didn't look amazed or awed or…or anything like that, but rather…_pleased!_ Pleased with…_himself!_ Like, "I've always known; I just knew it would take a little time, but you'd come around…" Oh, how she wanted to…to just…

Oh, men! Truly, they could be the most…infuriating creatures sometimes!

Mary reminded her, once again, that she was just behind her right shoulder. "We are talking about…?"

_Oh Mary, don't be so dense!_

_Now_ her sister was going to play coy and naïve? Please.

"Branson, yes.

A voice in the back of Sybil's mind was screaming at her, demanding to know what in God's name she was doing! But Sybil ignored that voice and any other warning bell that was ringing in her head. She was tired of it all; tired of the deceit, tired of her grandmother's accusations, tired of the emotional carousel that her heart seemed to be forever trapped within, ever since she met Tom Branson of Dublin, Ireland!

"The chauffeur, Branson?" Mary asked, as if she needed clarity. How many Branson's did she know? Even Sybil looked at her as if she were mad for having to ask such a silly question.

"Oh, how disappointing of you," Sybil accused, glaring at her sister as they entered a different corridor. If a person didn't know any better, they wouldn't think it possible that Mary had a heart of any kind, sometimes! Or that her sister was good friends with Carson and Anna!

Mary immediately defended herself. "I'm just trying to get it straight in my head!" she hissed. "_You_ and _the chauffeur_…"

_TOM, Mary! His name is TOM!_ Did Mary even know Branson's first name? Was she even aware that he had one?

"Oh Mary, you know I don't care about all of that!" Sybil spat back as they began to climb the stairs back up towards the main floor.

Mary rolled her eyes, matching Sybil's stride with her own. "Oh darling, darling, don't be such a baby. This isn't Fairyland!" she retorted, earning a deep frown from her sister. "What did you think? You'd marry the chauffeur and we'd all come to tea?"

_Stupid girl!_ That cynical voice was both pointing an accusing finger at her, as well as laughing evilly in her face. _Stupid, foolish, idiot!_

Sybil sniffed, trying to keep the tears that were stinging the corners of her eyes from falling. No, she didn't think her sister, or any member of her family, would so willingly accept Branson the way her heart had, but…at the same time…Mary's words struck a very raw nerve.

_This isn't Fairyland_. No, she knew that, she knew better than to think of her feelings for Branson as a "reverse Cinderella" story, with a princess marrying the servant. But at the same time, the harshness of that reminder felt like a knife, stabbing her heart.

_"What did you think? You'd marry the chauffeur and we'd all come to tea?"_

The cynical voice didn't need to mock her; Mary's "voice of reason" did enough.

"Don't be silly," Sybil muttered, trying her best to keep the venom from her voice. She was regretting this now, regretting that she had allowed her stress and frustration over everything that had and was happening to get the better of her and reveal so much to her sister. _Perhaps I should simply go back to lying?_ "I don't even think I like him," although it wouldn't take a genius to hear the obvious doubt in her voice. _Stupid, foolish, idiot!_

Mary surprised her by coming around to face her, once they reached the main floor. "What has he said to you?" she demanded, although her voice was soft and coaxing, with a nurturing touch. It reminded Sybil of a time when they were children, and she was convinced there was a monster in the nursery closet and Mary put her arm around her to sooth her, while bravely opening the door to reveal there was nothing to be afraid of.

That voice, that tone, always had a way of relaxing her and making her forget any feelings of sadness or anger. And looking into Mary's dark eyes, Sybil could see nothing but love and concern; Mary generally wanted to know her younger sister's feelings…and…perhaps understand what she was going through…

"…That he loves me and he wants me to run away with him."

_Wishful thinking_, the cynical voice reminded her. No, of course that wasn't what Branson had said. It was quite the opposite, but Sybil had a feeling that if she revealed that much, she wouldn't escape her sister's lecture on _"how wrong and improper such feelings were…"_ or worse, _"oh darling, you really are being such a baby; don't worry, this is all just some school-girl crush and will go away once you can return to London for a 'proper' season…"_

"Good God in heaven!" Mary gasped, looking utterly horrified at the idea. An impish part of Sybil couldn't deny that she enjoyed seeing that reaction; nothing as shocking as a forbidden romance between star-crossed lovers, as Susan would put it.

"He's frightfully full of himself," Sybil continued, her hand going to her hip, and her eyes rolling a bit for emphasis. She did this partly to continue Mary's shock, as well as because in truth, she believed it. There was something…cocky…about Branson. And God help her, as annoying as she sometimes found that cockiness and cheek, she still loved him.

"You don't say!" Mary gasped again, still looking stunned by this piece of news. Apparently she thought it was just "harmless flirting" between the classes; nothing as deep as…love.

Sybil nibbled her bottom lip and then looked Mary in the eyes. She felt torn, to be honest. Because as wonderful as it was to get these feelings off her chest in her letters to Gwen, at the same time, she longed for her big sister, just as she had when she was little. And yet, she knew it was dangerous, revealing all these secrets. She was taking a big risk, and in some ways…gambling with Branson's job! And yet…despite the voices that were telling her to shut up, to deny everything, to keep the charade going for as long as it had…a piece of her heart said to push through. As painful as Mary's words had been earlier, this was, in essence, a test. Was it possible…for Sybil to do what she was contemplating? To…well, as Mary put it, to marry the chauffeur? And if she did…would _anyone_ in her family accept her? Was she destined to be a pariah in their eyes? Or…even if there was disagreement, could love between sisters, survive?

"But I haven't encouraged him," Sybil murmured, more for Mary's benefit than her own. "I haven't said anything, really." It was true; she hadn't told him how she felt and she certainly hadn't said yes to his proposal.

"You haven't given him away, though," Mary replied, with a bit of a shake of her head. It was clear she didn't approve, but then Sybil hadn't expected her to.

Now was the true test.

"Will you?"

Sybil looked up into her sister's eyes, searching for that girl who had protected her when she was small, who had been her knight in shining armor against all sorts of bedtime beasties. Did that same person exist?

Mary gazed back at her, her eyes not blinking once, before finally speaking. "Well…I won't betray him," she began, before holding Sybil's gaze, her eyes and tone extremely serious. "On one condition…"

Sybil didn't move her eyes away, although she hated to think what Mary's condition would be. Stay away from him? Don't go to the garage anymore? Don't engage in any conversation unless it has to do with destinations? Don't go _anywhere_ with him at all, from this day forth? Oh for heaven's sake, why, why, _why_ had she done this? What on earth was she thinking when she started telling Mary—

"You must promise not to do anything stupid."

Sybil looked down, as if she were feeling ashamed. Mary's words from that argument so many days ago were repeated once more, only now…Mary _did_ know something was going on, so to speak.

Could she do it? Could she make such a promise? It would only lead to more deceit, and she knew it. After all, she was truly considering the idea of…of running away with him! No longer was she looking at the entire thing as something that just…could not be. She was changing…and so were her doubts from before.

"You must promise now!" Mary insisted, grabbing hold of her hand and forcing her to look up into her sister's eyes. "You must promise now or I'll tell Papa tonight!"

She knew Mary meant it. It wasn't a bluff, it was a fact.

But at the same time…Sybil also knew that…Mary had passed her test.

_She means it; she _won't_ say anything._

Sybil took a deep breath, shaking her head a bit because the whole situation was just so…so…

"I promise."

The words were out before she even realized she had said them.

Mary lifted her head and straightened her shoulders. It was hard to tell what she was thinking, but she did look…at the very least…satisfied. Or perhaps resigned. Either way, she nodded her head in approval, before giving Sybil's hand a squeeze, and then turned and walked away. For the first time all day, Sybil found herself shadowless.

How long she stood there, Sybil wasn't sure, but it wasn't until another nurse approached her, asking if she had the supplies they had asked her to fetch, that she came out of her stupor.

Oh Lord…what had she done?

Her mouth fell open as another thought suddenly struck her.

Branson…oh God, what would he say? He would be furious, no doubt!

_You don't have to tell him…_

If that cynical, impish voice belonged to a physical person, she would glare at them before shoving them aside. Of course she had to tell him! This wasn't just about her, although looking back she groaned when she realized how…self-centered…her words sounded, as if she were simply trying to protect her own skin.

_Don't you trust your sister? Didn't she promise you to not to say or reveal anything so long as you 'didn't do anything stupid'?_

No, no, she _still_ needed to tell Branson, _because it wasn't just about her_; it was about _them_. And he had a right to know the truth, to be prepared…even if that meant he would despise her for the revelation.

She bit her lip and looked out the window. He was in Kirby-Moorside with Papa, visiting that pub where Bates was apparently working. How long would they be there? Her father had left early this morning, shortly after breakfast. He was determined to bring Bates back no matter how long it took, which meant it could be hours, before Branson returned.

Hours; enough time for her to try and get her thoughts together on how to tell him what had transpired between herself and Mary.

It was also enough time to drive her mad with anxiety.


	91. Branson's Journal XI

_Wow, what an emotional week, Downton lovers! Saw E3 on Monday, and it made me want to curl up under a blanket with a bowl of ice cream and a big fluffy cat. As you can imagine, it was difficult writing this chapter as it is rather emotional in its own right, but here it is! Branson's journal entry about that oh so interesting "confrontation" in the garage where Sybil tells him that Mary knows, and where she refers to them as "us"...and where he says the dumb line. ;o) Thanks for reading, and please leave a comment!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Ninety-One<strong>

April 12, 1918 _(well…suppose it's the 13th, as its three minutes past midnight)_

…Not that it matters. Wasn't expecting to write two entries in the same day, but…

…

…

Bloody fool.

That's what I am; bloody, stupid, fool.

…

…

I never suspected, as I drove his Lordship and Mr. Bates back from Kirby-Moorside that…that _this_ was to be how my day would end.

I'm glad Mr. Bates is back; he's a good man and has always shown me nothing but kindness and respect. I'm glad for Anna, too. At supper tonight, she was positively glowing with happiness, and it didn't escape my notice to see the secret hand squeeze the two of them exchanged. I also enjoyed the sour expression on Miss O'Brien's face. Thomas wasn't there at the time (thank the good Lord) but I can only imagine how he must have looked. Despite Miss O'Brien's clear disdain, everyone seemed happy to have him back; Mr. Carson certainly looked relieved. Well, perhaps not everyone; poor Mr. Molesley had come by to serve as valet to his Lordship, and as I suspected, looked utterly dejected upon the discovery that Mr. Bates was back for good. Perhaps Molesley can find some solace with Miss O'Brien? Not that he's the sort to sink down to her and Thomas' level.

His Lordship was in high spirits during the entire drive back. He insisted that Bates sit in the back with him, despite the man's protests, and I must confess, I found the entire argument amusing. Just shows that Bates truly does bring out the best in everyone, including his Lordship. On the drive back, his Lordship and Bates were engaging in talk from their army days, and even included me in the conversation! They laughed and his Lordship would keep saying, _"Branson, listen to this! Tell him, Bates, tell him about that horrid stew we had, where we were all convinced it was made with hyena!"_ I must say, it was without a doubt, the liveliest motor ride I've ever driven.

After returning to Downton, and after having supper, I returned to the garage to work on the Renault's engine—it was making a somewhat suspicious sound, while we were returning from Kirby-Moorside. I had just closed the bonnet, when I heard the all too familiar sounds of a woman's shoes on the gravel drive, just outside. I know that sound by heart…

The door creaked open, and there she stood, still dressed in her uniform, but looking radiant as always.

God, I missed her. It's strange sometimes, how…how much you can miss a person; there have been days when I don't get to see or speak with her at all, and each one is excruciating. I assumed today was going to be one of those days, but I suppose I should have known better. Late hours mean very little to Sybil Crawley. And I must confess, when she poked her head inside, I couldn't help but lean against my work table, fold my arms across my chest, and smile. This was so like her, just popping in no matter what the hour. I suppose anyone else would be shocked, but not me. I welcome these visits; I cherish them.

…

Her blush…oh God, it's…is it possible for her to be _any_ lovelier? I adore her smile; it's radiant and breathtaking, but when she blushes…God, all I want to do is kiss her. If I wrote down every dream I've ever had, since meeting Sybil Crawley, and taking her in my arms and kissing her every time I saw that sweet blush…I think it's safe to say it would be enough to fill five journals, at the_ very least._

…

She stood there, smiling and blushing (a lethal combination for my heart) and just…looked so…so sweet, and so…so beautiful…no doubt I looked like a grinning idiot, just standing there and gazing back at her in utter awe.

…And that was when the bomb fell.

…

…

She told me that Lady Mary now knew the truth.

…

To be specific, she told me that…that _she_ had told Lady Mary the truth.

…

…

I can't deny, it felt…well, it felt like a punch to the stomach.

To say I was shocked would be an understatement. I remember standing there, blinking at her as if I hadn't registered what she had just told me, and then…of all things, I chuckled.

I actually chuckled!

Not out of mirth, but…I don't know, I suppose it was my strange sense of "gallows humor", trying to calm me at this sudden realization.

So many thoughts flooded my head in that instant. The first was my doubt, pointing an accusing finger and telling me that this proved she didn't love me, that despite all the months that had passed since last July, where I was playing it safe and cool and letting her set the pace, letting her come to me, letting her make the discovery and realization that she did love me…that it was all for nothing, that it was all false. She had told her sister, because she wanted me to go.

…That was my first thought.

Then, my hope rose up in fierce armor, ready to draw my doubt into combat, and began arguing that I was wrong to think that, that she did indeed love me, that…that this was her way of telling me she had told her sister because…because she was ready! She was ready to depart, to accept my offer, to go forth and conquer the world, the two of us…_together_.

…But my doubt got the better of me, at least to a point.

I put on a strong face and a false smile, laughed at myself, and then muttered words along the lines of, _"well that's me finished then! And without a reference—"_

…

Then, as I know so well…Sybil, once again, surprised me.

She insisted I was wrong to assume the worst! That Lady Mary could be trusted, even though I was right to assume she wouldn't encourage us…

…

…

I actually find myself laughing again. Grinning like an idiot, despite everything that's happened.

Lord, I could…I can recite her words from memory: _"She won't give us away…"_

Us.

She said…_us_.

Clearly my chuckling caught her off guard. She looked at me strangely while I pushed away from the table and stuffed my hands in my pockets. She asked me why I was smiling; poor lass, she truly looked puzzled by my reaction. She thought I would be angry…

…

And then I told her why I wasn't upset. Was I pleased by this news? Not especially, no, but…I can't fault her for…for wanting to tell someone else, I suppose. As someone who has four sisters, I've learned that girls…well, they like to "talk" about the boys they fancy with one another, and they'll often talk with their friends long before they say anything to the boy, himself. Maybe I should take this as a good sign? She told her sister…and…and she referred to us as…well, as "us". And that's what I said; I said _"Because that's the first time you've ever spoken about 'us'."_

And once again, she blushed.

…

…

I've often wondered what this moment would be like, this moment of…revelation. I confronted her about it over a week ago, and when she said that one simple word, "us", I assumed…that this was the moment. The moment where she would tell me that yes…she loved me.

The reality to what happened was nothing like I had imagined, at least not what I had wanted it to be like.

She looked unsure, she looked nervous, and it was clear in her eyes, even though she tried to look away, that a battle of emotions was raging in their beautiful blue-gray depths. So…I tried to…"help".

_"If you didn't care, you would have told them months ago."_

…

I should have kept my mouth shut.

…

…

She exploded at me. And Lord help me, I can recite those words, too.

_"Oh I see. Because I don't want you to lose your job, it must mean I'm madly in love with you."_

…

Well…I thought it might.

To say she wasn't…pleased…by my answer, is an understatement.

Did I sound like I was taking the mickey? I wasn't trying to, honest! But God, now as I remember how my answer sounded, no doubt it did come across semi-mocking.

This was not at all how I wanted this conversation to go. This was the moment to be declaring our love for one another! To finally…be forthright with our feelings! But instead, it resulted in an argument. Not a screaming match, no, it was nothing like that. But…well, it wasn't good.

She said I was asking her to give up her whole world and all the people connected to it.

Not at all! No, I didn't mean it like that! But…God help me, the accusing tone in her voice got my defenses up, and asked her if that was too high of a price to pay, to which she was ready to answer, saying that it was a high price…not that it was _too_ high, but I would be fooling myself to deny that it was…asking a lot of her.

…And I know that it is asking a lot of her. And…and I _hate_ that! I hate that it's…that it's causing her these feelings of conflict, I truly do! I'm not such a horrible monster that I don't care that she's hurting! I tried to calm down, I told my defenses to shut it, and told her that I wasn't asking her to give up the ones she cared about, not forever. Because I know that's what she worries about, not…not the stone and mortar of Downton Abbey, but the people who live there. I tried to reassure her, I went so far as to promise her that they would come around, and when the time came, I would gladly welcome them into my heart and home, because…because they're a part of her, _and I love her._

…

I should have told her that.

I should have told her that I love her. I should have been blunt and just say the words, plain and simple.

Maybe that would have eased the tension…as well as her fear?

Because that was what happened next; her fear got the better of her. I saw it, once again, playing in the depths of her eyes, and I know that fear, I've felt it before, but I've accepted these feelings for…well, for years now, but they're clearly still new to her, or her acceptance of them. And she lashed out at me in fear…

_"And what about your people? Would they accept me?"_

Despite my best efforts…my defenses couldn't remain quiet. Like a tom cat getting ready for a fight, I felt my spine arch up and my jaw set in place. Just as she had declared I didn't know her family…I fought the urge to shout back, "you don't know mine!" And she doesn't…but whose fault is that?

I've often wondered what my family would think, if I wrote to them and told them that the entire reason I chose to stay in England was because of an English girl I met; and not just any girl, but the aristocratic daughter of my employer? Well, to put it like that, I know exactly how they would react. But…I like to think once they met her…they would embrace her and love her just as much as I do.

Mother's main concern would be if she could cook and manage a house, properly. I would have to explain to her that Sybil is not of her generation, with the view that a woman's sole purpose is to care for a house and children. Sybil, my darling Sybil, would want to work, and I fully support that, in fact, I encourage that! And I think Sybil could convince my Mother to her way of thinking. Besides, Sybil would welcome the challenge to prove my mother wrong, and I can just see the two of them having some sort of…"bake off".

Kathleen would adore her, I know. She and Sybil are close in age, and that would help ease any of Sybil's anxieties. My sister has always been welcoming and kind and she would go out of her way to make sure Sybil felt welcome.

The other girls would love her, too. Siobhan has such an appetite for books, I could see her sitting and asking Sybil all sorts of questions, as well as take an interest in Sybil's "feminist" leanings. The younger girls, Aileen and Moira, would probably be a little shy…but I can see them falling in love with her. Frank, well…he would put on a tough exterior; I don't think he would say anything outwardly rude to her, and he's not running with that crowd anymore, but…he may be a little cold, sadly because of her Englishness. Yet, I do believe Sybil would win him over, she has that magic. And she would win any of my family over, even Uncle Michael, if he were still alive…

But I let my defenses get the better of me, and became hot-headed. Especially when she accused me of not caring about her work.

…

Alright, she didn't say "you don't care about my work!" but…it was implied. Or so I thought at the time.

In the midst of "asking" me how "my people" would accept her, she also asked, _"What about my work?"_ to which…I'm ashamed to say, I replied like a right git.

_"What work? Bringing hot drinks to a lot of randy officers?"_

…

…

Lord, I mucked things up.

…

I just…I was upset, I…I couldn't stop thinking that Lady Mary now knew the truth, and despite what Sybil said, I was convinced she would try to interfere and steer Sybil away, just when she was so close to…to _seeing_ what I know in my heart is true! And my doubts, my cynicism, they were feeding off of her fear, trying to convince me that I was wrong, that she didn't love me, that this was all a huge misunderstanding, that I misinterpreted her motivations and reasons for coming to see me, and then to top it all off, hearing what…what sounded accusing and…and spiteful, when she asked after my family, if they would accept her, and the…the patronizing way she more or less accused me of not thinking that all of this was a great deal to take in, that I had no idea the weight of such a decision was—I DO know, God, I would DO ANYTHING if I could take that pain and heartbreak away for her, I would! I'm not so blind as she may think, I know it's a serious decision, I know it will change her life, I'm well aware of that!

…And then I remembered what happened to Ethel, how only this morning, I learned she had been sacked, and while the reason was never given, I know deep in my bones it has to do with the likes of that bastard, who once tried to convince me to give him the Renault.

And before I knew it, my frustration and anger and the stress that had been building up when this entire conversation began, poured out in that retort.

And…oh God, the look on her face; the pain I saw in her eyes. It was as if I had struck her.

…

DAMN IT ALL!

…

…

…

I've splattered ink all over this bloody thing from throwing it across the room. I also managed to knock several dishes onto the floor, creating a great mess which will certainly keep me busy for the next hour. The perfect way to end the evening.

Sybil is better than this blasted convalescent home. She's a good nurse—no, she's a BRILLIANT nurse; she could be a doctor if she so wished it, I believe that, truly. The things I've seen her do at the hospital, and the things I hear about…_that's_ where she shines. Helping these officers rest and recuperate is all well and good, but its waste of her gifts. And…and that's what I should have said, but…oh blast it all.

…

I tried…I actually _tried_ to make it better, in a manner of speaking. Despite the pain I saw in her eyes at my retort, I immediately told her that all that mattered in the end was whether or not she returned my feelings, if she felt for me as I feel for her.

But she didn't say anything.

She stared at me with…oh God, with tear-filled eyes, the pain and betrayal radiating in them, and I swore…I couldn't breathe. I opened my mouth, I murmured her name and took a step towards her, but she spun around and…and ran.

It was tempting to run after her, so tempting…

And I actually did, in a way…to the garage door.

But I could already see her disappearing into the house, right past the silent figures of Anna and Bates, who were speaking to one another in hushed voices, just beyond. I doubt they heard us, but…in all honesty, I don't even care. I don't care if the entire house heard our argument, it doesn't matter anyway, because Lady Mary knows, and if she really wants to get rid of me, nothing's stopping her.

…

…

Well done, Tom! Well done! Insult her work, insult the one thing she is so proud to have achieved on her own! And for betraying her trust as well! Because that's what she felt: _trust_. She trusted you with believing in her, with standing by her while everyone else around her told her it couldn't be done. Indeed, well done.

…

…

…

Will she ever forgive me? After taking so many steps forward, this one argument has slid us so far back.

…

I have to apologize to her, there's no doubt about that. However, I doubt she'll come and see me anytime soon, and I'm not supposed to go beyond the Servant's Hall. God, how I wish Gwen were here; I know I could depend on her to get a note to Sybil-of course the question then becomes if she'll read it or not.

…But I have to try. I can't let these things stand as they are. I won't!

Because I love her; that's all, that's it—the rest _is_, as I said, detail.

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><p><em>Next chapter...Sybil's thoughts on that same encounter!<em>


	92. Sybil's Diary XXIII

_Here it is! Sybil's side to that confrontation in the garage; how did she respond? What did she think of what Branson had said? What else did she think? Coming soon...THE CONCERT SCENE! Thanks again for the lovely reviews, and please continue to let me know your thoughts! _

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><p><strong>Chapter Ninety-Two<strong>

April 12, 1918

No, no, it's the 13th; just because I haven't gone to bed doesn't mean the days haven't changed.

…Not that it matters.

…

…

How…?

How could he…how could he say…?

…

…

I…I'm still in shock. I can't…I mean, I can't believe it!

…

We've had our arguments before, of course; Lord knows we've raised our voices to one another in the past—the summer of 1915, the various confrontations we had last July, are a few that come to mind. But…he's _never_ insulted my work before…

…

I mean, how dare he! How dare he say something like that! After all, I've never insulted his politics, even if I don't necessarily agree with everything he does! I would never do that to him, so…so how could he…?

…

…

Oh Lord, I've been up and down, pacing back and forth (it's a miracle there isn't a groove in the floor by the amount of pacing I've done ever since I met bloody Tom Branson!) and…I just…oh I have a right mind to go back out there and pound on his door and…and…CHALLENGE HIM TO A DUEL!

…

…

I don't care how silly that sounds, I would! I would take a glove, and as the French do, slap him across the face and tell him to gather his seconds and choose the time when we would meet!

…

Alright, I wouldn't seriously use a weapon upon him…_other than_ a cricket bat perhaps. Yes, that would be perfect; I would bring a cricket bat and just…beat him over the head with it!

…

…

Maybe it wouldn't solve anything, but I would at least feel better! And…it certainly helps right now, thinking about chasing him across the yard with a cricket bat—in fact…I can't help but admit, I'm actually giggling at the thought.

Oh Lord, I can see it now! We meet at dawn, somewhere in the garden…perhaps by that willow tree outside my window? Yes, we meet at the willow, at dawn, and he'll be standing there, with some sort of dumb expression on his face, and before he can say anything…I produce a cricket bat that I was hiding behind my skirts—doesn't matter how, I just was—and I proceed to wallop him, HARD, on…on the knee with it! He'll fall to the ground, howling in pain, and then I'll run around behind him and…and STRIKE his _backside!_ HA! He'll fall on his hands and knees and I'll continue striking him, and he'll try to crawl away, desperately, but it won't matter, I'll keep walloping his backside as a teacher would to a naughty student, and then he would manage to somehow get to his feet, and I would threaten to hit him over the end with my bat, which would send him scurrying across the lawn, with me at his heels, swinging the bat to and fro and laughing maniacally the whole time!

…

…

…Yes, I actually _do_ feel much better.

…

This was not what I expected. This day, this night…any of it.

Alright, that's not entirely true, I did enter that garage with a little trepidation, because of what I had to tell him: that Mary is now aware—not only that, but…_I_ told her.

But…after the long day, after…just…_missing_ him, wanting to see him, to finally have the opportunity to sneak to the garage and talk to him…for a few brief moments, I forgot my reason for being there, and I just…I couldn't help smiling at him, as he leaned against that table, his arms folded, returning my smile, looking…genuinely glad to see me.

But I wasn't wrong in what I said to Mary; he can be terribly full of himself.

…Still, that smile of his always has a way of making me melt.

…

It's so silly, I mean, I've spoken to him a million times, why I was feeling so…so giddy, now? Of course…I've been feeling that way ever since he…ever since he revealed that he's aware of my feelings, and ever since he told me that he would stay at Downton until I was ready to run away with him.

…

I stood there, standing in that doorway, grinning and blushing like an idiot, and knew I had to say something, and what did I say? _"So Bates is back; Papa must be pleased!"_

Good grief, as if he weren't aware? He had been driving with Papa the entire time, and he was there when Bates got into the car! Of course he knew Bates was back, and of course he knew how pleased Papa was, because…well, because he saw the whole thing! Oh Lord, could I have sounded any sillier? And how does he respond? He simply grins and continues leaning against that table in that…that…_arrogant_ way of his…while still looking devilishly handsome (blast him) and murmurs something about how pleased Carson will be, now that Bates is back, and…oh, I could just die of embarrassment.

…

I don't know what drove me to say it, but…it had to be said, and I had been rehearsing the words over and over ever since Papa had returned from Kirby-Moorside, so…I just said it: that I had told Mary; that she knows everything.

…Alright, not _everything_, of course, but…she knows enough.

And I steeled myself for…for his anger to explode, or for a barrage of questions to be pelted at me, demanding to know why I had done that, because in all honesty, I had been doing that to myself all day, ever since I spoke to her.

But he didn't. He didn't do any of those things. He stared at me, looking shocked, and a painful silence passed between us, before…he began to chuckle, of all things. It wasn't a humorous chuckle, though, but…one of "pained irony", if that makes sense. And I remember how, at the time, I felt my heart clench, when he murmured, _"Well, that's me finished then, and without a reference…"_

Oh God, how tempting it was to rush forward and…well, take his hands, at least, and squeeze them and tell him, "no, no, it's going to be alright! You have nothing to fear!" because I could see the pain in his eyes, and no doubt he thought that I…that I despised him, or something horrible like that, that I wanted him gone, and that was why I had told my sister, which of course is the _last thing_ that I want! So I immediately tried to reassure him, and told him that Mary isn't like that, that she won't betray our secret or give us away—to which he asked, _"But she won't encourage us?"_ and I had to painfully answer in all honesty…no.

…

And then he chuckled again!

He stepped away from the table, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and just…laughed, grinning the entire time as if I had just shared the most splendid joke!

This wasn't a laugh or a smile done out of…of…gallows humor; no, this was genuine! And it confused me more than anything else! Why wasn't he raging? Why wasn't he asking questions, demanding to know what had transpired between Mary and myself to make me say such things, why on earth did he look so…happy?

And then he told me.

_"Because that's the first time you've ever spoken about 'us'."_

…

Us.

I didn't even realize I had said that until he mentioned it. And…I didn't know what to say, exactly. I just…I stood there, blushing like an idiot, no doubt with my mouth hanging open, trying to think of something to say, but…just couldn't!

_Us_. Such a small, simple word…and yet it carries a great deal of weight.

I suppose it shouldn't be too surprising that I said it…since that's how I think of him. Of course, he wasn't supposed to know that…nor was he supposed to know my feelings, and yet now he knows both!

My silence clearly got the better of me, because he stepped closer to me and said, _"If you didn't care, you would have told them months ago."_ And…I don't know, I don't know why I responded the way I did, but…perhaps I'm still feeling tender about the revelation that he knows my feelings, and I'm still worried whether or not anything good can come from these feelings, and there's still a part of me that…that is just so…fed up with that cock-sure manner of his, where he acts as if this isn't the most life-changing decision I will ever have to make, but whatever the reasons…I didn't reply in kind.

I was angry. I was really angry! I think I may have even been the one to start the argument! I looked at him and felt my spine bristle like…like some ally cat, and retorted that because I didn't say anything that would threaten his job, it must mean that I'm hopelessly, head over heels in love with him?

…

…

Alright, so what if I am! THAT'S NOT THE POINT! The point is…the point is…

…

Oh to hell with the point! And to hell with his answer of, _"Well, doesn't it?"_ which just…oh, just threw me over the edge!

So I more or less told him that he has no idea what these feelings are putting me through! That what he asked of me back in York and…and what he's asking of me now, by telling me he'll stay until I'm ready to run away with him, is, as I said before, life-changing! I would have to give up EVERYTHING that I love! And I don't mean Downton, I don't care about the house or living the life of a "Lady", but…my friends…even though the people I'm closest to live outside this "aristocratic" world—oh fine, then my family! I love my family! I love my parents and my sisters, and yes, even Granny! And…and I worry, sometimes; I worry what will happen if I do this, if I follow my heart and marry this wonderful, infuriating Irishman. Will they shun me? That's what happens in all the novels. Mary herself even mocked the idea, referring to the whole thing as "Fairyland". When Papa speaks of his daughters, will he only refer to Mary and Edith, and if anyone asks whatever became of his youngest, simply murmur that she's "gone" and that's the end of that? IT TERRIFIES ME! These thoughts! Sometimes, I wake up in the night, in a cold sweat, from such horrible nightmares! I mean, convincing them to let me go to York and train to be a nurse was a great deal for them to accept; what if telling them I'm in love with the chauffeur and want to be his wife, were the straw that broke the camel's back?

I often wonder, especially as of late…if Anne Elliot from Persuasion had followed her heart in the beginning, and married Fredrick Wentworth when he first proposed to her…what would have happened? Clearly, there would be no story to tell, but…I certainly got the impression that her family would have shunned her, would have turned her out and she more or less would be "dead" to them, from here on after.

…

Am I doomed to be like Anne Elliot? Will my fear ultimately persuade me, as it did her? And sadly, I doubt Branson will be as forgiving in the end as Captain Wentworth, and who could blame him? Captain Wentworth is fictional; Tom Branson is not—and I can't imagine _any_ man having that kind of patience…

…

…

He tried to reassure me. He told me that my family and everyone dear to me would come around! How can he promise something like that? How can ANYONE promise something like that? While I did tell him that he doesn't know my family, at the same time, he doesn't know for certain that this will happen, that they will come around and welcome us into Downton again, as husband and wife, or that they would come and visit us, wherever we choose to reside. HE WASN'T THERE WHEN MARY SAID WHAT SHE SAID TO ME!

_"Oh darling, darling, don't be such a baby. What did you think? You'd marry the chauffeur and we'd all come to tea?"_

God, those words hurt when she said them, and all I could think was…how sad and how true they were.

No, no, they would never accept us, never!

And…and something inside me snapped, because when he told me that it would be alright, he just…he looked so calm and so steady and…I wanted to scream at him! I wanted to scream, "Why are you so cool about this? Aren't you terrified? Don't you worry? But you stand there, and chuckle when I tell you that I've revealed to someone else the whole truth, about us, yes, 'us'!"

But I didn't scream that. Instead, I demanded to know what "his" people would think. And…I'm not proud of the tone I used.

Now that I think about it, it did come across as patronizing; v_ery_ patronizing.

But I wanted to…to…to shake him! I wanted him to understand the fear that I was feeling! And I truly do want to know what he thinks; does he think that his family will open their arms to an English woman born of an aristocrat? I know so little about his family, but I'm sure they're working class, and I can't blame them if they carry some resentment for people like me…no matter the nationality, but then again, _that_ doesn't help, either! And I could see that my question had struck a nerve; I saw the mirth, the calmness leave his eyes, I saw his jaw set in place and his muscles tense. And I was fully ranting at that point, and continued, demanding to know what would become of us, of me, of my work! I finally found something that made me feel…like my life has purpose! WORTH! I love being a nurse! If I marry him, what does he expect of me? To be "lady of the manor" in whatever bungalow or flat we live in? To fix meals, clean the house, and raise children? I…I don't mind the thought of…of doing something like that to a place of my—of _our_, own. But…but I don't _just_ want to be a wife and mother; I want to continue nursing!

…

…

…

That was when he said those words to me, those words that silenced me on the subject, entirely. Those words that still have me shaking in…so many emotions: rage, anger, sadness, despair, shock, and a dozen others I can't name.

_"What work? Bringing hot drinks to a lot of randy officers?"_

…

Is THAT what he thinks my work is? SERVING DRINKS? WAITING ON PEOPLE? Is that ALL he thinks I do?

…

And what is this comment about "randy officers"? What is he implying? Oh God, he is…is he implying that I…?

…

No, no, that's too low a blow, I refuse to believe THAT. But…HE KNOWS BETTER! He's seen me work! He's seen what I do at the hospital! He may not have been present while I assisted with a surgery or bathed an amputee, or dressed a wound, or stitched a man up, but…BUT HE KNOWS BECAUSE I HAVE _TOLD_ HIM! Good God, doesn't he remember how angry and upset I was about what had happened to Lt. Courtney? That was MUCH more than serving a beverage. I just…I can't believe he would say that! That he would belittle what I do like that! He knows how important my job is to me! He knows how hard I've worked to achieve what I am, what I've become! I thought he understood that? I thought he supported that? Oh! BLOODY BRANSON!

…

…

I was just…so stunned, and so _hurt_ by what he had said. The anger didn't kick in until I returned to my room, and once again, I had to fight the urge to throw and break everything around me.

I ran from him. I turned on my heel, and ran away before my tears betrayed me and he would see me cry. But…before I ran, before I left, he…he _did_ say something else…

_"Look, it comes down to whether or not you love me! That's all, that's it! The rest is detail…"_

Detail.

The devil is in the details, they say.

…

_"The rest is detail…" _What does that mean, exactly? That…that everything I fear, everything I worry about…in the end, it doesn't matter? Those are just details getting in the way of the grander picture, so to speak?

…

…

Isn't that a naïve way to look at things?

…

Or I am misunderstanding his meaning?

Is he saying…that so long as we love one another, and have one another…we can face anything?

…

…

…

I'm still furious with him for what he said, though. And I'm still tempted to take a cricket bat to his head.

…

I…I honestly don't know what to do.


	93. If You Were the Only

_Ok, so I know there is "some" anxiety going around the fandom due to certain speculations, not to mention we're all DYING for Sunday's episode...so I decided to stay up well past my bedtime (it's nealry 1:30 in the morning, I have to be up by 7:30) to post this chapter so we can all feel some Sybil/Branson lurve. Hope you enjoy and THANK YOU for reading and as always, please leave a comment!_

_Oh! And this chapter is a *DUEL POV* chapter; I couldn't decide whose POV I wanted to follow...so I went with both :oP_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Ninety-Three<strong>

Sybil stared blankly at her sister. The words were barely washing over her; Matthew was missing?

"Papa is going to tell Mama…" Edith explained. "And…I told Mary, last night," she looked down at the skirt and tried smooth away a non-existent wrinkle. "I thought you should know."

_Because I'm always the last to know everything._ Sybil quickly chastised herself for the negative thought. Now was not the time.

_Matthew is missing. Matthew is missing!_ No matter how many times she kept repeating the words Edith had told her, she still couldn't believe it. "How...?" she didn't quite know how to formulate the question, probably because the simple word was attached to several questions!

Edith sighed and sat down on the edge of Sybil's bed. They had just come back upstairs after dinner. Sybil was once again changing into her uniform, when Edith came knocking at her door. She was surprised to see her sister, thinking she would be downstairs, warming on the piano for the evening's concert, but one look into Edith's worried eyes, and Sybil felt the pit of her stomach drop in apprehension. _"There's something you should know…"_

The first thought that flew through Sybil's mind was that they knew. Mary had said something, and now they all knew about Branson! And here was her sister, coming to warn her about the thunderstorm that would be Papa's wrath.

But that worry began to disappear, the second Edith mentioned how the kitchen maid, Daisy, had approached her a few days ago, mentioning how she hadn't heard anything from William, their former footman. Edith went to their father, to see if he could learn anything through his connections in the army, and then the other night, the night when Granny had more or less cornered Sybil at dinner and questioned her about "inappropriate friendships", that Papa had received a phone call…informing him that Matthew (and William) were missing.

"I don't know how long they've been missing, really," Edith murmured. "But…I only learned about it because I was standing by Papa when he answered the telephone."

Sybil mutely nodded her head, and leaned against one of the bedposts. Oh God, what was going through Mary's head? This explained so much; why her sister looked so melancholy during dinner. Oh God, what about Cousin Isobel? No one really knew where she was, except somewhere in Paris. Did she have any idea about what was going on? And what about the rest of the staff? Sybil knew that William was dear to so many of them, Branson had told her so.

_Branson_. Despite her anger and frustration over what had happened the previous night, a part of her desperately wanted to go to him, to…what? Fall into his arms and feel him hold her? She blushed brightly at the thought and shook her head. No, no, this wasn't about her, even though she did deeply care for Matthew, as well as for William. No, right now, the person who needed comfort the most was Mary.

"How did she take it?" Sybil asked. She knew Edith would understand her question.

Edith sighed and shook her head. "How do you think?"

Sybil once again nodded her head, her heart aching for her sister. She remembered their arguments within the past week, and they all seemed so silly. She was ashamed of the things she had said to hurt her sister; ashamed of the insult she had thrown in Mary's face about being engaged to one man when she was in love with another.

"I should go to her…"

"We should go downstairs," Edith intervened. "It's almost time for the concert."

Sybil stared at Edith, her eyes wide and a retort began to form on her lips. But she swallowed that retort as she looked into the sympathetic, yet calm eyes of her sister. Edith truly had come into her own as the Convalescent Manager.

"Alright…" she whispered, nodding her head in reluctant agreement. Edith gave her small smile, and squeezed her arm, before turning and leading the way out of the room. Now was the not the time for panicking; panic wouldn't help Matthew or William. And of course, there were a great many explanations to be given; she shouldn't assume the worst.

The words from Nurse Templeton, her old mentor, came rushing back; words about what it really meant to be a nurse, to care and look after the sick and wounded. Sybil had also learned, especially since her work began at the Convalescent Home, that a part of that care was keeping spirits up. And that was what she needed to do right now; keep the men's spirits up…and maybe, also the spirits of her sister.

* * *

><p>For what felt like the hundredth time since he had written the letter, Branson was reading it (again) and kept frowning at it. He knew he would never be fully satisfied with the note, it could always be improved, but at the same time, tonight was his only chance to give it to her.<p>

At supper, Mr. Carson announced that his Lordship wanted all members of the staff, including kitchen staff (much to Daisy's shock and surprise) to be upstairs and present for the evening's concert. At first, Branson wanted to roll his eyes and groan at the idea. He'd rather be in his cottage, reading Persuasion, than standing in the back of a room, watching a load of officers entertain themselves with so-called "talent".

But then he realized that Sybil would be there too. And the answer to the question he had been worrying over all day suddenly presented itself. Slip her the note! Earlier, he was wondering how to deliver her his apology. He had been able to depend on Gwen in the past in delivering his messages, but now that she was gone, there really wasn't anyone else he could turn to. As good a friend as Anna was, he knew she wouldn't be comfortable in playing messenger between a servant and a lady of the house. He thought about slipping it in her laundry again…but he had a feeling, ever since last July, Anna was much more…thorough…in putting away Sybil's clothes. Slipping the note into Sybil's hands was the best bet he had…

…Now he just had to figure out a way to get close enough to her to do it!

This task seemed far more difficult than trying to figure out to get the letter to her room.

She was angry with him, quite rightly. As he suspected, she didn't come to the garage at all, not even to "have it out" with him. Tonight, at this concert, would be the only opportunity to see her…and he prayed that it wouldn't be the last time.

But he frowned as he gazed down at his note. He had gone through several drafts (the crumpled pieces of paper that lined his rubbish bin could attest to that). He came to supper late and he left early just so he could finish it. Now, with only a few minutes until he was supposed to be inside, he put his pen down and looked down upon his work.

It would have to do.

Branson groaned and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. You would think after the amount of time he had put in to writing in his journal, he would be an expert! Of course, those were simply his thoughts and opinions written for himself—this was a letter of heartfelt apology, written to the woman he loved. Nothing was ever going to be good enough, from that perspective.

Still…it needed something. But what?

A knock on his door shook him from his thoughts. "Mr. Branson?"

Branson pulled on his coat and stuffed the letter into his pocket, as well as a pen (in case last minute inspiration struck). He opened the cottage door and smiled at the image of Mr. Bates.

"You have no idea how long it's been since I've opened the door and seen you standing on the other side," he laughed.

Bates chuckled. "Actually, I think I do."

Branson laughed and clapped Bates on the shoulder. "Well, it is good to have you back. And I know I'm not the only one who's glad for it."

Bates smiled but also sighed. "If only everyone could share your opinion."

Branson knew who Bates was referring to. "Don't give them any mind; they're a small minority, and ever since you left, both his Lordship and Mr. Carson have come to appreciate you and value you more, I think. Besides, technically Thomas isn't 'one of us', which means when the War ends, he'll be leaving, thank the good Lord."

Bates sighed and nodded his head. "I hope you're right. Miss O'Brien is trying to 'frighten' me, by telling me I need to mind him, that he's 'the real one in charge'."

Branson rolled his eyes. "I'd like to hear her say that around Mr. Carson…or Dr. Clarkson, for that matter."

Bates laughed and they headed towards the house. "I noticed you left supper early…?"

Branson swallowed the nervous lump in his throat and put on a smile. "Aye; I um…had something I needed to finish, before the concert."

Bates nodded his head. "After you left, they told me about poor William."

Branson stopped and looked at Bates with confusion. "William?"

Bates nodded his head. "Yes, about him missing."

Not only did Branson's frown deepen, but his eyes went wide at the revelation. "William is missing?" he gasped.

Now Bates was frowning. "I…I thought you knew? They said they learned this yesterday—"

"I was in Kirby-Moorside all day, yesterday. And…I've been either in the garage or my cottage during most of today." Branson swallowed and felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. William was missing? Good God, for how long? When did this happen?

"Apparently, Daisy went to Lady Edith a few days ago, hoping that she could speak with Lordship about learning of William's whereabouts."

Branson closed his eyes and groaned. Daisy. Of course. Daisy, who had been worrying over why William hadn't come to Downton during his leave. He had written to Gwen about Daisy's worry, as well as written about it in his journal. But like Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore and all the rest of them…he never suspected it could be anything as bad as…as bad as…

"Do you know anything else?" Branson asked, looking up at Bates with concerned eyes. He liked William, thought of him as a good friend, and every so often, William would say something that reminded him of his brother, Frank. He also felt a kinship with William, in the sense that they both loved women who may or may not love them back.

Bates shook his head. "It was only confirmed two days ago. His Lordship received a phone call, telling him that both Captain Crawley and William were reported as missing, after going on some mission behind enemy lines."

Branson thought back to the other day. He remembered on the drive to Kirby-Moorside, his Lordship looked anxious and worried. At the time, he simply thought it was because his Lordship was worried about whether he could convince Bates to come back with him; but now…this all made so much more sense.

Both William and Mr. Matthew were missing. Behind enemy lines…

Good God, there were so many possibilities, but they were all chilling.

"Thank you…" he murmured to Bates. "For…for telling me."

Bates nodded his head. "A happy accident, since I thought you already knew."

Branson mutely nodded his head as they entered the house. He must be one of the last people to find out. If he hadn't been so worried about his half-written apology, he may have noticed the melancholy mood at the table tonight. What was going on upstairs? Mr. Matthew was the heir to Downton, no doubt his Lordship was worried sick. And Lady Mary, for that matter. What about Sybil? What was she thinking? Unlike the rest of them, he knew that she cared about William, or that she saw William as more than just a former footman.

He climbed the stairs to the great hall, where everyone was gathered for the concert. His fellow servants, along with various members of the hospital, were all standing in the back, while the officers and members of the Crawley family were seated in the many chairs that lined the floor.

Well, all save one member of the Crawley family.

Branson watched as Sybil moved about the room, along with other nurses, tucking blankets onto the laps of officers, or pouring them cups of tea. Despite what he had said the other night, he couldn't help but smile at her while she worked, admiring her caring hand, longing to touch it with his own.

The weight of the letter in his pocket suddenly felt very heavy. One thing was for certain; he would not leave this room, until he had placed it in her hands.

* * *

><p>Of course she had noticed him enter the room, much to her annoyance. Sybil sighed and tried to keep her mind focused on the tasks at hand, but…oh damn it all! If wasn't her worry for Mary, then it was her awareness of Branson, that had her so distracted.<p>

Mary was already in the hall, along with her parents and grandmother, when Sybil and Edith entered the room. The men were assembling and seating themselves, and her fellow nurses were going around, offering blankets as well as cups of hot tea for them to drink. Sybil actually gritted her teeth when one of the nurses offered her a pot to carry around.

"…_Bringing hot drinks to a lot of randy officers?"_ And of course, this would be the time he entered the room.

With her nose in the air, Sybil did her best to ignore him, as she took the pot around the room, filling various cups and offering a kind smile, even though she could feel his eyes burning upon her profile, no matter where she went.

"Thank you," one of the officers murmured as she filled his cup. She lifted her eyes to smile at him and say "you're welcome", but was stopped short when he winked at her.

_Winked at her!_

His eyes also traveled rather…inappropriately…over her bodice, and Sybil immediately straightened herself, and quickly moved away from the man's gaze.

_Randy officers._ Damn Branson for his…his…bloody insightfulness!

The concert was soon underway. A few officers stepped forward and played some songs on the piano. A few more sang some songs, many of them popular marching songs, including _It's a Long Way to Tipperary. _One man recited poetry, while two others played out a scene from Shakespeare's _Henry V._ There was even a magic act from Major Bryant. Oh Lord, how Sybil wished he could make himself disappear.

The whole time he watched her. She didn't have to look up and catch his eyes, she just…knew. Damn her emotions! She was furious with him, but…her heart couldn't stop beating rapidly at the thought of him watching her. Her cheeks burned, and no doubt the man whom she was tucking in with the blanket thought it was for him, by the somewhat bashful smile he was giving her. Oh she could just imagine Branson's smirk! _See, I told you I was right; what work, indeed._

She tried to focus on her sister instead. She looked out to where Mary was sitting, knowing that the song she and Edith had been practicing would be next (the grand finale, so to speak). Despite the news that Matthew was missing, Mary looked calm and cool and was smiling politely as Major Bryant continued his act. _How does she do it?_ Sybil thought. _How does she hide her emotions like that? It truly is an art form. _Sybil had tried, and failed, in doing the same thing. Her false smiles always looked strained, and of course her blush gave everything away. No wonder Branson could read her so well.

The so-called magic act was finally over, and everyone politely clapped, including herself. Mary then rose from her chair and began to give the introduction to the song she and Edith were about to perform. Sybil moved away, not wanting anyone to confuse her for "The Crawley Sisters" in this case.

But now what? Take Mary's seat? No, it would look odd, being the only nurse sitting while the others were standing in the back. But that was where Branson stood, too.

_Oh for heaven's sake, you're your own woman! Don't let his presence dictate what you do! If you want to stand back there with your fellow nurses, then do it, and stop being such a child!_

So, with her head held high, and her eyes avoiding his…she did just that. However, she was fully aware…that he moved a little closer to where she stood, until he was more or less…right next to her.

* * *

><p>Branson gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw as the bastard who he had no doubt was responsible for getting Ethel sacked performed a "magic show" of all things. <em>And for my next trick, I'll make a housemaid's job, disappear!<em> Lord, it was taking all the willpower he could muster to not stride forward, and lay his fist in the officer's face. The only thing he could do, in order to take his mind off the rage he was feeling, was focus on her.

Perhaps he had misspoke when he accused the task of serving tea as the opposite of work? While it didn't seem that important to him, it clearly meant a great deal to the men that she was serving. But then that was one of Sybil's talents; the ability to make anyone smile.

She as avoiding his eyes, he wasn't fooled. He could tell by her body language, the occasional blush on her cheek. _She's still upset, _and he couldn't blame her. Lord, this was going to take a great deal of groveling; he only prayed his letter could express a pinch of that.

Lady Mary rose then, and began introducing a song that she was going to perform. Yet his eyes were focused instead on Sybil, who seemed to be trying to determine where to go. _Back here…come back here, to me…please…_

God must be smiling on him that day, because his prayer was answered…so to speak.

She did come to the back, where he and other members of staff were standing…but she didn't come to stand right next to where he was. However, she wasn't so far away that with a few steps…he would be by her side.

And he didn't care who took notice. Besides, they were all focused on Lady Edith, who began to play the piano, and Lady Mary, who smiled and began to sing.

_"__Sometimes when I feel bad,  
><em>_And things look blue  
>I wish a pal I had...say one like you…"<em>

He couldn't help but feel the corner of his mouth lift at the words Lady Mary sang. How appropriate for his Sybil.

"_Someone within my heart to build a throne…"_

He was next to her now. Had she noticed? Her hands were folded in front of her, and her eyes were focused on her sister, but every so often, he noticed that they would glance at the ground. When she did this, he also noticed a pink glow color her cheek.

"_Someone who'd never part, to call my own…"_

Lady Mary lifted her hands, a gesture of invitation for everyone else to join her in singing the chorus. Branson was unfamiliar with the song, so he simply kept his eyes focused on the woman standing next to him…whose lips were softly moving to the song.

"_If you were the only girl in the world,  
>And I were the only boy;<br>Nothing else would matter in the world today  
>We could go on loving in the same old way…"<em>

He was transfixed, completely. The rest of the world fell away, save for her singing profile. The words kept washing over him, making his chest swell and his heart beat faster. _Listen to the words, Sybil,_ he silently pleaded. _Listen to the words and see what I see; nothing else matters. The rest truly is detail…_

* * *

><p>She was more aware of his presence than ever before.<p>

Sybil swallowed the nervous lump in her throat and tried her hardest to not let her eyes dart to the side, where he stood. He kept looking at her, but unlike those officers, his gaze didn't bother her. Unnerved her? Yes, very. But not in the way a man with lustful eyes could.

His gaze was more and more apparent as Mary's song filled the room with each passing lyric. She knew this was the song her sisters had chosen, knowing how popular it was with the officers. But at the same time, she couldn't help but feel shivers run up and down her spine at the similarity between the song's words, and the words Branson had spoken to her the other night…and all the times before.

She joined the room in singing the chorus, aware that he wasn't singing along (did he not know the words?) and very aware that he was watching her intently. She glanced down at the ground and nervously ran her hands along her apron.

_We could go on loving the same old way…_

Yes. How often had she longed that they could continue this romance as they had done in the past? With deep, meaningful conversations on books and politics? But…at the same time, she longed for more, too. She longed for times when she could go and see him and didn't have to leave. She longed for times to talk with him without having to do it behind the backs of her family. And yes, she certainly longed for times when she could…openly…express her feelings; with hands…and lips.

God, she must look like a boiling tea kettle, judging by how hot her cheeks felt!

"_A garden of Eden just made for two…"_ her sister continued. Sybil couldn't help but smile at this, although it was partially a sad smile. Indeed, even in the midst of her anger with him, she found herself longing for that private paradise where they could freely live and love without judgment, without fear, without…

But this wasn't "fairyland" as Mary had so eloquently put it.

Just then…something caught Sybil's eye. Branson had noticed too, because his head had also turned.

"_With nothing to mar our joy—"_

Mary's voice suddenly came to a stop, because no doubt she had seen exactly what Sybil was seeing.

Matthew!

Lord, was it…was it possible?

Yes! Oh thank God, YES! Matthew…alive and well! And William too! Sybil was beaming, and felt tears of joy drip down her cheeks as they both strode into the room, wearing big smiles on their faces. Sybil grinned and looked towards the front to where Mary was standing. Mary looked shocked, to say the least, but very, very relieved. "Oh thank God…" she heard her sister murmur, and Sybil sniffed back the happy sob that threatened to leave her throat.

As her father and mother rose to their feet, happy to greet Matthew, and as William was embraced by other members of staff, Sybil in her happiness, not realizing what she was doing until it happened, reached to her side, desperately seeking—

She closed her eyes, and a sigh of happy relief escaped her lungs…as Branson's fingers curled around hers.

* * *

><p>Branson grinned as Mr. Matthew and William entered the room, causing everyone to fall silent and stare at the two. He saw Sybil's tears, heard her happy gasp, but it was her hand that fell to her side, and just as it had at that garden party, so many years ago, reach out next to her, reaching out and looking, needing…<p>

Who was he deny what they both needed in that moment?

His hand found hers, and he curled his fingers around her smaller ones, giving it an affectionate squeeze, not caring if anyone saw, just as he hadn't cared when he embraced her along with Gwen at the garden party.

"Well, don't stop on my account!" Mr. Matthew laughed, before coming down the aisle to the make-shift stage, singing the next words in the song. _"I would say such wonderful things to you…"_

Lady Mary smiled and joined his voice in the next line. _"There would be such wonderful things to do…"_

Once again, she lifted her hands to the audience and smiled, and once again, everyone joined in singing the last lines of the chorus…including himself.

"_If you were the only girl in the world,  
><em>_And I were the only boy."_

The room erupted into applause, but for a brief moment, he and Sybil continued holding hands, even though they kept their eyes forward. It didn't matter—this was enough, for now.

He gave her hand one last squeeze, and then reluctantly released it, before joining the applause.

…And that was when he discovered the thing he needed for his letter.

* * *

><p>"Nurse Crawley, could you go around and refill cups once more?" Nurse Daniels, the Head Nurse, asked, as she began to wheel some of the officers back to their dormitories.<p>

Sybil nodded her head, and retrieved one of the teapots. Everyone was milling around the room and in some of the adjoining rooms, for a reception to follow the concert. Mrs. Patmore and Daisy were fussing over William, and her parents and sisters were gathered around Matthew, listening to him tell them what had really happened. For once, Sybil didn't mind being the last to know.

She was confused, however, about Branson's sudden disappearance. After that emotional return, she had reached out and held his hand. He had squeezed it, tenderly, even after the song had ended. And then he disappeared. Before anyone else could leave the room, he was gone.

Despite her…anger…with him for what he had said, she missed him. Dreadfully.

"More tea?" she asked a nearby officer, who smiled and held out his cup. Another cup suddenly appeared just over her shoulder, and Sybil turned to fill that one too…and gasped, nearly dropping the pot, as she realized that the hand that held the cup…was Branson's. "W-w-what?" she stammered, wondering where he had come from, and why he had left in the first place.

He smiled and righted the pot in her hands. She blushed as his hand covered hers, "helping her" pour the tea into his cup. "Thank you, Nurse Crawley," he whispered. And before she could open her mouth to ask him what he was doing, or where he had gone, she realized he was slipping something into the pocket of her apron!

She blushed and looked down at the pocket, and then lifted her eyes once more to him…but he was gone. Again.

His disappearing act was far superior to Major Bryant's.

She glanced around, making sure no one was paying any notice, and quickly dug out the item he had placed in her pocket.

A letter.

She blushed for the millionth time that night. Why…?

No, no, now was not the time. She stuffed the letter back into her pocket, and put on a smile and went around the room, refilling cups just as Nurse Daniels had asked her to do. But the entire time she was thinking of the letter in her pocket, and how she couldn't wait to retreat to her room to read whatever he had written.

_I thought you were "furious" with him?_

She ignored the chastising voice in her head. Yes, she was still pained by what he had said to her the other day, but at the same time, Matthew and William's sudden arrival taught her that life was far too short to bear grudges.


	94. An Apology

_Here's the promised letter! What did Branson say? How did he apologize? I like to think it was something like this :o) ENJOY! Thanks for reading, and please leave a comment!_

_P.S.-KEEP THE FAITH S/B shippers! As Mrs. Potts would say, I do believe "everything will be alright in the end" :o)_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Ninety-Four<strong>

Dear Sybil,

I pray that you haven't crumpled this letter, once you realize to whom it's from. I also pray that you will read beyond these first lines. I wanted to talk to you in person…but I feared you wouldn't wish to hear me, let alone see me, so I thought that perhaps it was best to put my words to paper—although I confess, for a man who has spent so many months now, scribbling notes and writing personal political essays…this has been the hardest thing for me to write.

Oh, not that I mean I didn't want to write this! No, no, I don't mean that, I mean, it's hard to tell you how sorry—I mean, I don't mean it's _hard_ to say sorry, I mean it's hard to _express_ the deepness of that—

Lord, I pray you're still reading after that debacle.

What I'm trying to say, is…I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I said to you the other night, about…about your work. It was wrong of me to say that, because the truth is I do admire you, I do respect the hard work you have done to get to where you are now. I think you're a brilliant nurse, Sybil, I really do. In fact, I'm in utter awe of what you have done. Perhaps even a little jealous, if I'm honest.

You're the bravest person I know. You saw a need, and without question, you answered that call to help, to do more, to work and…do what you could to make the world better. For all the talk I give about change, you actually _are_ bringing change. And it truly is inspiring.

I remember that day, when you came to the garage to tell me how you were going to be leaving for York. I remember being stunned by the news, and then later, feeling absolutely amazed by the courage you were showing; to leave what was completely familiar—to go and work and live a life that had no connections to your home or family. Not many people can do what you did—no one, actually, that I can think of. And yet you did it. And I remember the letters we shared (I keep them actually; did you know that? I do, I keep every single letter you ever sent me, even those ones that you sent me when you were in London). I remember your struggles with some of the other nurses and your fellow students; I remember the bullying you had to face, and the prejudice you endured because you were an "earl's daughter". I remember you telling me about some girls who, like you, had come from similar backgrounds, and who left the school because they were scared or lonely or couldn't handle the pressure that was thrust upon them. But you stayed. You endured. You were determined to show them all that you could work just as hard as they could, and that you would be one of the best nurses that school ever saw. And then, of course, I remember those weeks after your training had ended; I remember your worry over your final exams, what marks you had earned, would you receive a good review from your superiors…and then the letter came. And you had the highest marks of any other nurse in your class.

I was so proud of you. I'm _still_ proud. I'm still amazed! God, the stories you would tell me about the anatomy lessons, the dissected bodies, the organs you had to identify, the surgeries you assisted—do you remember how green I would turn during those discussions? But not you; you always had a calm head and cool demeanor. And I remember how, before the Convalescent Home opened, coming to see you while you were working at the hospital (not long after Thomas returned) and I remember you ordering him about (I can't deny, it did make me grin) but…the leadership you showed, that "take-charge" attitude you upheld. I remember thinking _"any patient who finds his way into her care will be extremely blessed"_. And I still think that—no, I _believe_ that. What you do, Sybil—it's a gift. It's a wonderful, beautiful, rare gift, and you suit it perfectly.

I've been fortunate enough to see that side of you, to see the professional, caring, responsible nurse that you are. I've also been fortunate in hearing your stories, no matter how…"gritty"…the details are. And I remember how…_passionate_ you were, in seeking justice for poor Lt. Courtney, and all the patients recovering from the trauma they had endured during the War. You fought tooth and nail to bring that convalescent home to Downton Abbey, and you succeeded! No one could have done that; I know Mrs. Crawley helped, but truly, Sybil…that was all _you_. Your passion, your drive, your effort.

I hope that you know this, that you know how much I admire you for your work, for your accomplishments. If you don't, then…I pray you can forgive me for not telling you enough. Even if you are aware…I still ask for your forgiveness, because I should have told you every day, how wonderful you are.

With all this being said…then it probably makes very little sense why I said what I said the other night.

Sybil, I do think you're a wonderful nurse. But I confess, I always thought of nursing as…well, what you did at the hospital. The Convalescent Home is different; while it is still a place of recovery, like the hospital, it's…it seems different. I will admit, as harsh as it sounds…it sometimes seems less important.

BUT I KNOW I'M WRONG ABOUT THAT! Please, I realize that now. I realize that nursing is more than the gritty details of assisting a surgeon or binding a wound. Nursing is caring, and caring takes many forms. You're not only caring for the body of a patient; you're caring for his mind and soul, too. And sometimes, something as "simple" as pouring a man a cup of tea, reading him a letter from home, or wrapping a blanket around his shoulders…that can do so much for a person who has been to hell and back. I remember how Mr. Lang, your father's former valet, struggled with those demons. Poor man; if I knew what I know now, I would have encouraged him to come to you and to spend some time in your care—maybe some of those demons could have exorcised then.

I confess, that horrible comment I made…it was said in frustration and yes, even a little anger. But that's no excuse. I am ashamed of my words, and I pray you can forgive me.

Also…forgive me for sounding presumptuous, but…I know that you're frightened. I suppose it's not every day that…that a working class lad proposes marriage to a well-born lady. I know I have little to offer, compared to the fine suitors who danced with you at your coming out ball. While I have some money saved, I know it will never match the luxuries of a place like Downton, even if I work ten jobs every day for the rest of my life. A part of me is thinking this is utterly mad, me telling you all this; but I want to lay all my cards on the table, even if that means risking you turning me down for good. But…once again, forgive the assumption, but…I don't think you care for all that. Meaning, I don't think you care about living in a huge manor, having fancy dinners and elaborate parties, attending every soirée in London and having tea with duchesses and countesses. When you talked about London, it wasn't the balls or shopping excursions that had you excited; it was going to the British Museum, and attending suffragette rallies! When war broke out, you weren't satisfied in knitting mittens and socks, or selling programs for whatever charity event was being sponsored. You said you wanted "real work"—a "real job". And…I confess, for the first time that thought…it gave me hope that…that just perhaps you could…that…that _we could…_

…

…

I…I know this is hard for you. And I'm not making fun, honest. I know that what I'm asking you to do, to consider…it's not easy. And I wish…I wish I could take that fear away for you. I wish I could take away any pain that you feel, any worry. I'm scared too, as hard as that may seem. I know I sometimes seem…full of myself, I suppose—it's sort of a defense mechanism, to try to combat my fear with over-zealous confidence. But it's true; I _am_ scared, because I know this is a huge decision, for both of us. I want to make you happy—I want to give you anything and everything you desire, and I'm scared that I'll only disappoint you because I can't measure up to what those other suitors can offer.

But…at the same time, I think that what I can offer is…I hope…better, than what they have. I can't offer you riches…but I can offer you respect. I can't offer you a grand house…but I can offer you a loving embrace, one that will cherish you and thank the Lord every night for blessing me with the opportunity to hold you in my arms. I can't offer you all the posh things high society holds dear…but I can offer you a partner who will encourage you and cheer for you whenever you set your heart and mind to something. If you want to be a nurse for the rest of your days, I will support you fully. If you want to join a circus and walk the tight-rope…then I will support you with that too! I can't offer you perfection, and I can't promise that we'll always see eye to eye on everything…but I can offer you a man who will try, and try again for you, who will listen to your opinion, and who will fight for you and any children we may have. I offer you my _whole heart_, Sybil Crawley…I offered it to you in York, and I still offer it to you. And I meant what I said that day—I _will_ stay here, at Downton, until you're ready. Yes, I do want to help Ireland, I do want to be a part of her fight for freedom, but…winning your heart is the battle I'm most concerned with. And if that means waiting a lifetime until I'm old and gray…then so be it.

Because the truth is…you _are_ the only girl in the world..._for me._

Thank you.

With deepest apologies...and in deepest affection,

—Tom


	95. Branson's Journal TYPERWRITER EDITION 2

_You asked for it! Here it is, ANOTHER journal entry by Mr. T. Branson...TYPEWRITER STYLE! And in this particular entry, he FINALLY talks about his thoughts on Persuasion. Now, I should warn there are some spoilers for Persuasion in this chapter, but I tried to keep them to a minimum; in other words, do not depend on my chapter to help you write a book report ;o) _

_Also, at the every end, **I threw in a little something for Syblime**...you'll see! Hope you enjoy this second round in Branson typewriter fun and as always, please leave a comment! THANK YOU!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Ninety-Five<strong>

THE JOURNAL OF TOM BRANSON

TYPEWRITER EDITION PART 2

APRIL 25, 1918

LAST NIGHT I FINISHED THE BOOK SYBIL LEANT TO ME: "PERSUASION" BY JANE AUSTEN. I WAS SURPRISED WITH HOW MUCH I ENJOYED IT, EVEN THOUGH IN TRUTH IT'S NOT THE SORT OF THING I USUALLY READ.

I WANTED TO WRITE MY THOUGHTS ABOUT IT…AND FELT IT WOULD BE GOOD PRACTICE FOR MY TYPING, ESPECIALLY SINCE I AM THINKING MORE AND MORE ABOUT PERHAPS TYPING SOME OF MY NOTES AND PRESENTING THEM AS AN ESSAY. FOR WHAT PURPOSE! NO, THAT'S NOT RIGHT, I MEANT ?

FOR WHAT PURPOSE? I AM STILL NOT SURE; GWEN THOUGHT PERHAPS I WAS THINKING OF BECOMING A WRITER, ESPECIALLY SINCE I TOLD HER ABOUT ALL THE BOOKS I HAD BEEN READING FROM HIS LORDSHIPS…FORGOT THE '

FROM HIS LORDSHIP'S LIBRARY; I DO LIKE THE IDEA, AND HAVE BEEN TOYING WITH IT WHICH IS WHY I SPEND SO MUCH TIME PRACTICING MY TYPING. BUT I AM NOW THINKING THAT MAYBE I WANT TO BE A CERTAIN TYPE OF WRITER…LIKE A JOURNALIST.

IT IS A MAD IDEA, AND I AM FAR FROM READY TO SEND SOMETHING TO A PUBLISHER OR PAPER, BUT PERHAPS TYPING A REPORT ON MY FEELINGS ABOUT MISS AUSTENS

ABOUT MISS AUSTEN'S NOVEL, WOULD BE A GOOD WAY TO START. I DO NOT KNOW WHY IT IS SO HARD TO TYPE A BLOODY ' IT IS NOT AS IF I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO FIND THE KEY, BUT IT IS STILL VERY CONFUSIONG

…

CONFUSING. I HATE MAKING TYPOS. IT IS A BLOODY WASTE OF TIME AND INK AND PAPER. AND NOW I AM RAMBLING AND WASTING MORE. I MIGHT AS WELL GET A FRESH SHEET BEFORE I BEGIN MY REPORT.

…

…

"PERSUASION" BY JANE AUSTEN

A NOVEL RECOMMENDED BY SYBIL CRAWLEY

A REPORT BY TOM BRANSON

100 YEARS AGO THIS NOVEL BY JANE AUSTEN WAS PUBLISHED, POSTHUMOUS. I LEARNED THIS AFTER DOING A LITTLE RESEARCH IN HIS LORDSHIP ' S LIBRARY.

IT IS CREDITED AS THE AUTHORS

…

AUTHOR'S FINAL COMPLETED WORK.

THE STORY CENTERS AROUND A WOMAN NAMED ANNE ELLIOT. PRIOR TO THE START OF THE BOOK, THE READER LEARNS THAT MISS ELLIOT WAS BRIEFLY ENGAGED TO A MAN NAMED FREDRICK WENTWORTH. MR. WENTWORTH HAD NO WEALTH OR APPEALING CONNECTIONS, AT LEAST IN THE EYES OF MISS ELLIOT ' S FAMILY. SIR WALTER ELLIOT IS ANNE ' S FATHER. HE AND HER SNOBBISH OLDER SISTER DISLIKE MR. WENTWORTH FOR THESE REASONS. ANNE 'S MOTHER IS DEAD, BUT A FRIEND OF THE FAMILY NAMED LADY RUSSELL, ON BEHALF OF SIR WALTER PERSUADES ANNE TO DROP THE ENGAGEMENT WHICH SHE DOES. HEARTBROKEN, MR. WENTWORTH ENLISTS WITH THE NAVY AND GOES OFF TO FIGHT DURING THE NAPLENIC

…

NAPOLEONIC WARS. THE STORY BEGINS EIGHT YEARS SINCE THAT INCIDENT. ANNE IS CONSIDERED AN "OLD MAID"…ALTHOUGH I HARDLY THINK 27 IS OLD, CONSIDERING THAT IS MY AGE, BUT I MUST REMIND MYSELF THAT THIS WAS 1817-1818 AND SUCH THINGS WERE OF VALUE THEN, PLUS I AM A MAN, AND WOMEN SEEM TO MAKE MOUNTAINS OUT OF MOLE HILLS OVER SUCH THINGS.

ANYWAY, I DIGRESS.

SIR WALTER IS A SPENDTHRIFT WASTREL AND HAS PUT THE FAMILY IN FINANCIAL RUIN. BUT HE IS FAR TOO STUBBORN AND SNOBBY TO MAKE PERSONAL ECONOMIC CHANGES TO HIS LIFESTYLE. THE ONLY OPTION HE WILL CONSIDER IS LETTING HIS ESTATE AND LEASING A HOUSE IN BATH. THE ONES WHO MOVE INTO THE ESTATE IS AN ADMIRAL AND HIS WIFE, WHO ALSO HAPPENS TO BE THE SISTER OF FREDRICK WENTWORTH, WHO IS NOW A DECORATED NAVEL CAPTAIN.

THE IRONY HERE IS THAT SIR WALTER REFUSED TO LET ANNE MARRY WENTWORTH BECAUSE HE THOUGHT WENTWORTH POOR AND UNIMPORTANT. NOW WENTWORTH HAS RETURNED AND NOT ONLY IS HE SEEN AS A HERO IN THE EYES OF THE NAVY, BUT HE IS ALSO VERY RICH, WHEREAS SIR WALTER IS ON THE VERGE OF LOSING EVERYTHING. I DID FIND THIS PART NOT ONLY JUSTIFYING, BUT ALSO INTERESTING. SOME OF THE RESEARCH I FOUND ABOUT JANE AUSTEN SAID THAT LOVED TO USE SATIRE IN HER WRITING. I MUST SAY I NEED TO GIVE MISS AUSTEN MORE CREDIT THAN I HAD DONE IN THE PAST, AND NOT DISMISS HER WORK AS SIMPLY "ROMANTIC VARIATIONS ON CINDERELLA".

WENTWORTH HAS NEVER FORGIVEN ANNE FOR BREAKING HIS HEART. NOW THAT WAR IS OVER HE WISHES TO MARRY, AND THERE ARE SEVERAL YOUNG AND PRETTY GIRLS OF ANNES AQUTANCE

…

OF ANNE;S

…

OF ANNE ' S AQUAINTICE

…

NO, THAT IS NOT RIGHT; HOW IS THAT WORD SPELT ?

…

AQUANTANCE

…

AQUINTICE

…

DAMN IT, HOW IS THAT SPELT?

…

…

ACQUINTANCE…I FORGOT THE BLOODY C.

…

THERE ARE SEVERAL GIRLS WHOM ANNE KNOWS THAT ATTRACT CAPTAIN WENTWORK

…

WENTWORTH

…

LORD HOW MUCH PAPER I HAVE WASTED OVER THESE BLOODY TYPOS!

…

…

AS I WAS SAYING, WENTWORTH IS ATTRACTED TO SEVERAL YOUNG LADIES WHOM ANNE KNOWS, BUT UPON SEEING ANNE AGAIN, HE TREATS HER COLDLY AND AVOIDS HER.

…

…

I MUST ADMIT, I FOUND MYSELF OFTEN PUTTING THE BOOK DOWN AT MOMENTS LIKE THESE. NOT BECAUSE I WAS NOT ENJOYING IT, BUT BECAUSE HOW…SIMILAR I FOUND THE STORY TO MOMENTS IN MY OWN LIFE.

ANNE ' S FAMILY DO NOT THINK THAT WENTWORTH IS GOOD ENOUGH FOR HER. HE PROPOSES TO HER, BUT SHE TURNS HIM DOWN.

WAS THIS WHY SYBIL GAVE ME THE BOOK ? IS SHE COMPARING ME TO WENTWORTH ? I HAVE NO PLANS OF JOINING THE ROYAL NAVY SO I DOUBT I WILL BE ABLE TO RETURN WITH A FORTUNE THE WAY WENTWORTH HAD, HOWEVER I DO NOT THINK THAT IS THE POINT SHE IS TRYING TO MAKE, IF THERE IS A POINT.

PERHAPS I AM PUTTING TOO MUCH THOUGHT INTO IT ?

I WILL ADMIT I FELT SORRY FOR WENTWORTH…AND THERE WERE TIMES I DID FIND MYSELF RELATING TO HIM. BUT THE STORY IS TOLD FROM ANNE 'S PERSPECTIVE, AND WHILE I AM NOT A 27 YEAR OLD WOMAN WITH A WEALTHY BACKGROUND…I DO KNOW WHAT IT IS LIKE TO SEE THE PERSON YOU LOVE AND FEEL UTTERLY HOPELESS THAT ANYTHING WILL HAPPEN. I FELT SORRY FOR ANNE AND I FELT HER PAIN AS SHE WATCHED WENTWORTH DANCE AND FLIRT WITH OTHER GIRLS. THERE IS ANOTHER CHARACTER, A VERY MINOR CHARACTER NAMED HARVILLE, WHO IS A FRIEND OF CAPTAIN WENTWORTH. HARVILLE AND ANNE HAVE AN INTERESTING ARGUMENT ON THE "FICKLENESS OF WOMEN'S HEARTS". HE MENTIONS THAT ALL SONGS, POEMS, STORIES, AND HISTORIES ARE AGAINST WOMEN AND THEIR ABILITY TO BE STEADFAST AND TRUE. ANNE ARGUES THAT ALL THESE THINGS WERE WRITTEN BY MEN, AND THAT WOMEN LOVE LONGEST AND SHE WILL NOT ALLOW A BOOK TO DICTATE HER HEART.

WELL SAID.

I CAN SEE PERHAPS WHY SYBIL LIKES THIS STORY. WHILE IT MAY NOT BE AS OBVIOUS AS "THE SUBJECTION OF WOMEN", IT IS CLEAR MISS AUSTEN DOES WRITE ABOUT WOMEN ' S RIGHTS, OR AT THE VERY LEAST THE IMAGE OF WOMEN IN LITERATURE.

THERE WERE MOMENTS WHEN I WORRIED FOR ANNE AND WENTWORTH. IT SEEMED HOPLESS FOR HER, THAT HE WOULD NEVER FORGIVE HER. AND THEN ANOTHER MAN, A DISTANT COUSIN, ENTERED THE STORY AND CLEARLY HAD HIS SIGHTS SET ON ANNE.

I REMEMBER HOW I WAS ONCE JEALOUS OF MR. MATTHEW AND BELIEVED HE HAD HIS SIGHTS SET ON SYBIL AND HER AS WELL.

WENTWORTH REALIZED HE STILL LOVED ANNE, DESPITE HIS INITIAL ANGER OVER HER TURNING HIM DOWN. BUT WAS IT TOO LATE ? WAS ANNE GOING TO MARRY HER COUSIN ? WERE THEY BOTH BOUND TO REPEAT THE MISTAKES THEY HAD MADE BEFORE ?

WHY DID SYBIL GIVE ME THIS BOOK ? IT IS NOT LIKE "NORTH AND SOUTH"; YES, THERE IS SATIRE AND COMMENTARY ON CLASS DIVIDES AND THE TREATMENT OF WOMEN, BUT THERE IS SOMETHING MORE AS WELL.

WHAT IS SYBIL TELLING ME ?

DOES SHE SEE ME AS WENTWORTH ? I MENTIONED THAT EARLIER, BUT WHAT I MEAN IS, AM I THE WENTWORTH IN THE NOVEL, NOT THE WENTWORTH PRIOR TO IT ? DOES THAT MAKE SENSE ? WHAT I MEAN IS, IS SHE SAYING THAT I AM WENTWORTH AND SHE IS ANNE…AND SHE IS WORRIED THAT I WILL BE LIKE WENTWORTH AND TREAT HER COLDLY BECAUSE SHE DID NOT ACCEPT MY PROPOSAL IN YORK ?

I WAS ANGRY WITH HER ONCE, I WILL NOT DENY THAT. I SPENT TOO MUCH TIME LAST SUMMER BEING ANGRY WITH HER…AND WITH MY LIFE, IN GENERAL. BUT EVEN IF I WERE SURROUNDED BY A DOZEN PRETTY GIRLS, IT WOULD NOT MATTER. MY LETTER SAID IT PLAIN AND SIMPLE: SHE, SYBIL CRAWLEY, IS THE ONLY GIRL IN THE WORLD. SHE MUST BE, BECAUSE I HAVE CHOSEN TO STAY HERE, AS LONG AS IT TAKES.

THAT BEING SAID, WE HAVE NOT SPOKEN A GREAT DEAL SINCE I GAVE HER MY LETTER. SHE HAS NOT WRITTEN A REPLY, BUT I WAS NOT EXPECTING ONE. I DO NOT KNOW WHAT I WAS EXPECTING. BUT SOMETHING.

PERHAPS I AM LIKE WENTWORTH; I AM SITTING HERE AND WORRYING THAT SHE HAS MOVED ON AND THAT I AM TOO LATE AND THAT MY STUPID COMMENT CUT TOO DEEP AND SHE WILL NEVER FORGIVE ME. MAYBE I AM LIKE ANNE IN THAT SENSE, AND SHE IS WENTWORTH. MAYBE WE ARE BOTH.

OR MAYBE SHE GAVE ME THIS BOOK FOR ANOTHER PURPOSE ? ANNE AND WENTWORTH ' S IS A STORY OF SECOND CHANCES. MAYBE SYBIL AND I HAVE A SECOND CHANCE ? I WOULD LIKE TO THINK THAT IS WHY SHE GAVE THIS TO ME. I WOULD LIKE VERY MUCH TO TALK WITH HER ABOUT IT. BUT I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO DO THAT WITHOUT TALKING ABOUT THE OBVIOUS ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM.

GOOD GOD, I CAN NOT BELIEVE HOW LONG IT HAS TAKEN ME TO TYPE ALL THIS. STILL, I HAVE IMPROVED A GREAT DEAL SINCE WHEN I FIRST STARTED.

MY FINAL THOUGHTS: "PERSUASION" IS A VERY GOOD NOVEL, VERY THOUGHT-PROVOKING, PERHAPS A LITTLE CLOSE FOR COMFORT AT TIMES, BUT I WOULD RECOMMEND IT. AND NOW I AM CURIOUS TO READ A LITTLE MORE BY MISS AUSTEN. I CERTAINLY WILL NOT MAKE FUN OF MY SISTER OR ANYONE ELSE FOR ENJOYING A NOVEL BY HER, NOR WILL I ROLL MY EYES WITH DISDAIN SHOULD SOMEONE MAKE A RECOMMENDATION.

NOW…HOW DID I DO THAT THING AGAIN ? IT WAS A COLON, FOLLOWED BY A DASH, FOLLOWED BY A BRACKET…

:-]

I HIT A FEW WRONG KEYS ONE TIME AND FOUND MYSELF LAUGHING AT THE MISTAKE. FOR SOME REASON, THIS LOOKS LIKE A FACE. BUT I SUPPOSE I SHOULD NOT PUT THAT IN ANYTHING I SERIOUSLY WRITE FOR A PUBLISHER. I DOUBT ANYONE ELSE WILL EVER TYPE SOMETHING SO SILLY…

* * *

><p><em>Hehehehehe, yeah, those things will never take off ;o) :oP :oD<em>


	96. 1918: A Third Letter to Gwen

_New episode, new part. Before we get into the "nitty-grittiness" of Episode 5, here is a "interlude" between Parts V & VI, where Sybil tries to decide on what to do about Branson's apology letter. And who better to discuss such things than a good friend? I hope you all have a friend like Gwen in your life...not to sound too mushy, but I do feel that a great deal of you out there, my fellow Sybil/Branson fans, are the "Gwen's" in my life, especially when it comes to the love we have for these characters :o) Thank you for reading, and for the comments you leave!_

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><p><strong>Volume II, Part VI<strong>

_Summer 1918_

**Chapter Ninety-Six**

Dearest Gwen!

Oh goodness, it fills me with such happiness to know that you will be coming to visit before the summer is over! I just read your letter and you must believe me, I literally began jumping up and down with excitement! Have you told Anna? I'm sure you have. Anyone else? Such as…Branson?

Oh Lord, just…promise me that you won't laugh during your visit if he and I are in the same room with you. No, I still haven't said anything to him…I mean really, what can I say? Honestly, you're as bad as my friend Susan, and she doesn't even know about my feelings! No one does, save you.

…

…

Alright, Mary knows.

I know, I know, I thought I was done for too. I didn't tell her! Well, alright, that's not entirely true, I did tell her, but…only because she was on the brink of figuring it out, and I hated being accused of…of…of having an "inappropriate friendship" as my grandmother put it. And no, Granny doesn't know…no one else in the family does, save Mary. But she promises to keep my secret and…well…that's that.

Oh Gwen, this is all really rather complicated to explain; it's best to wait until you're here…which no doubt causes you to despise me right now, and I'm sorry for that, but…honestly, it is very complicated!

…

So…how are Edward and the children? You will be bringing them with you, won't you? I am dying to meet them! The photograph you sent me at Easter is lovely, but naturally a photo is nothing compared to meeting little Tommy and Annie in person! I'm sorry that you won't be able to stay at Downton; if I had my way, you and your family would be given the finest rooms in the house! But…I know that would probably make you feel a little uncomfortable, and I also know that right now, it's not the most ideal situation because of the convalescent home. Will you stay at the Grantham Arms? If you do, I will speak to Papa about at least covering part of your stay; oh please Gwen, may I? It's the least I can do, and I want to, really, because you deserve to be treated like royalty, and if we can't do that by providing you with a fine room at Downton, then at least let us provide you with something along those lines at the Grantham Arms? At least think about it? Please?

Oh Gwen, there is so much to tell. It's been a very busy summer so far. Do you remember Mrs. Bird? She is Cousin Isobel's cook and housekeeper. I remember that she came to Downton when Mrs. Patmore was in London having her eye surgery. Anyway, Mrs. Bird has set up a soup kitchen at Crawley House! I learned this Mama; apparently for quite some time, Mrs. Patmore and Daisy have been bringing food to help, as well as helping with cooking, preparing, and serving the food too. O'Brien found out about the whole thing, and more or less "tattled" to Mama that Mrs. Patmore was stealing food (I'm sure that piece of news about O'Brien causing trouble is nothing new to you) and so Mama, with O'Brien, went to investigate. Well, I'm happy to say that once they learned the truth…Mama volunteered to help…as well as volunteered O'Brien! Oh Lord, I'm sure that was a funny sight! I wish I had been there to see O'Brien swallow her words. I know, I never had to work with her the way you, Anna, and Branson had to, but…I can't imagine how you put up with her Gwen, I really can't. I know it's not kind of me, but…I have never got on with her, I don't know why, but she has always rubbed me the wrong way. Anyway, Mama told me all about Mrs. Bird's soup kitchen, knowing that I would be interested, which of course I was, and I am happy to say that on a few occasions this summer, I happily volunteered to help with both serving and (yes, if you can believe it) cooking too! Thankfully, no one died from the food I prepared, so I can't be that bad. And I'm glad to have the chance to put those few skills Mrs. Patmore gave me to practice. You never know, Gwen, there may come a time when I need to use them on a more frequent basis!

…

…

Well, I um…yes, well.

Things continue to be busy here, at the Convalescent Home. The men keep talking about how the War will soon be over, and the reports I hear, both from Papa and what I am able to gather from the newspapers, seem to point that way too. Of course…this may also mean that the carnage will only get worse. I don't know Gwen; do you think this will be the year? Will 1918 end with the War finally over? Or are we doomed to go into yet another year, hoping and praying that that one will be the last. I honestly don't know what to think anymore.

Alright, this is going to sound horrible of me, but…never has the leaving of a patient filled me with such…satisfaction.

Major Bryant, that officer I once told you about, has _finally_ left! Oh Gwen, honestly, the man…oh, I just…really, he is just one of the most HORRIBLE men, truly! He was the one I mentioned that I was sure causing trouble to one of the housemaids. And that same housemaid is now gone, and I'm sure Major Bryant is behind it. You know, Branson once referred to the officers here as "randy", and while I think that's an unfair statement to make in regards to _all_ of the officers…it's a fitting one to him! I honestly don't know how he managed it, Gwen, meaning Major Bryant; I honestly don't know how he managed to stay here at Downton for as long as he did! But for nearly an entire year he was here, and for what reason? He wasn't that badly hurt, and…oh I don't know why I'm going on and on about it. The man is gone, and I don't care how cruel and unfeeling it makes me sound; the man is gone and I am glad for it. The place is much better without him.

Papa is better spirits now that Bates has returned. It's wonderful, really, seeing Anna so happy again. I know that Bates must wait until his divorce comes through, but I can tell that both he and Anna are eager to be married as soon as possible. Oh Gwen, wouldn't that be wonderful if they can marry while you are visiting? I hope so; I know it probably wouldn't be a fancy, elaborate wedding (I don't think Anna cares about all that so long as she can be with Bates) but…I sometimes imagine it, their wedding I mean. I like to think of you and I as bridesmaids, and Branson could be Bates' best man—

…

…

Of course…well…I can't imagine Branson ever agreeing to wear a morning coat, though. No doubt he sees such a thing as a "uniform of the oppressor". Not that I think a man has to wear something like that to a wedding, I mean he wore that very nice suit to yours, and he looked perfectly handsome—

…

Are you laughing at me, Gwen? I can't blame if you are, even though you should see my face; it's redder than a tomato to be sure.

…

…

Alright, I can't hold it back any longer.

Gwen, Branson…he…he…

…

He proposed to me.

There, I've said it.

…

Alright, he didn't say the _exact words_ "Sybil, will you marry me?" but…the indication was quite plain!

…

Did you know? About…about how he felt about me? I confess…I used to wonder, sometimes, if he thought about me the way I thought about him; if he dreamed about me the way I have dreamed…and continue to dream, about him. I…I don't know how long I've felt this way, but…I do believe it's been much longer than when I finally admitted to myself that yes, I…I'm in love with him.

But…the truth is, Gwen…Branson proposed to me, or the exact words were…to run away with him…when I went to York...nearly two years ago.

…

Are you angry with me? I…I don't blame you if you are. This is a huge secret that I have been carrying for a long time. When I first wrote you about my feelings, I know I made it sound as if I was alone in feeling them, but…no, I'm not. I…I haven't told Branson that I do love him, and…and I haven't said "no" to his proposal…but…but I haven't encouraged him, not…not forthrightly at least.

Oh Gwen, you're probably wondering why I'm telling you all this now. And the reason is...in the spring, he told me he knew. He told me he was aware, or rather, convinced, that I was in love with him, but too afraid to admit it, which…is true. I am, and I am too afraid to admit it, at least…to him. It frightens me to admit to myself! Even now, as I'm writing about this to you, my hand is shaking (I apologize for the sloppy handwriting). But…yes, he told me he was aware, and that he was planning on staying at Downton until I was ready to "run away with him". And what did I say? Oh Gwen, I was a coward and didn't say anything. I didn't say "yes", but at the same time, I didn't say "no".

…

…

He wrote me a letter, Gwen. An…an apology, for saying something in the heat of an argument, something that hurt. I believe his apology, I do, and…and it's the most…oh God, Gwen, it…Lord help me, I'm crying…it truly is the most _beautiful_ letter I have ever read. Ten times lovelier than any of those letters you helped the two of us exchange in the past, if that's possible. He restated his feelings, he told me that they haven't changed, that his proposal remains true and that he is willing to wait until I'm ready, no matter how long it takes.

…

I…I didn't reply. I didn't know what to say! How does one reply to such a letter?

…

Alright, stupid question. I know what I want to say; but…is what I should say?

You see, when…when I told you about my feelings for Branson—Tom…I asked for advice on how not to feel this way, because…because I believed nothing could come of it. All it would lead to was heartbreak.

I…I'm not completely convinced that it won't lead to that, but…for the first time since I admitted these feelings, I…I find myself wondering…is it possible? Meaning, is it possible for he and I to…have a life together?

I know it sounds mad, and no doubt you think I'm mad for even considering it, but…I am. But I want to be cautious, because I know it will change…everything. Not just the kind of life I will live, but…my relationships with my family and any friends that I have that Mama and Papa approve of (you know, people of my "class", even though I have never cared about any of that). If I make this choice, I know I can never go back…but at the same time, if I don't make it…I may lose something I will regret for the rest of my life. Because even though he told me he would stay at Downton until I'm ready, I…I just don't know if that's true. I mean, as this war winds down, Ireland's fight for freedom will rise up. I know he will want to be a part of that, and I truly don't want to keep him from it. And then I remember what happened between Mary and Matthew; I remember how she kept putting his proposal off, over and over, and then…it was over. I remember how painful that was, I remember how Mary blamed herself, and…and I remembered thinking I didn't want that to ever happen to me, that if I loved a man, I wouldn't make him wait the way she made Matthew wait. But…I'm worse than my sister; my God, Branson has been waiting for two years for an answer from me! But…oh Gwen, am I being foolish in not running to his cottage right now, and telling him that I do love him and want to run away with him? Or would _that_ be foolish? Would it be more foolish to not weigh every consequence, to not make plans for how we will live and what we will do and how to approach our families? I…I don't want to lose my family, Gwen, but at the same time…I fear I will be asked to sacrifice someone I love, and…_God, I hate this!_

_…_

…

…

I wish you were here. I need my friend, desperately. Oh, why couldn't it be tomorrow that you were arriving?

…

Oh forgive me, Gwen; forgive me for…for just…unburdening myself on you with all of this. I know it's not the first time, and you are always so kind and patient with me.

…

Oh Gwen, did you ever think that you would find yourself offering romantic advice to an earl's daughter? Did you ever imagine that you would be the confident between two such people? Indeed, it does sound like the kind of thing found in novels…but…those always end tragically. And, I…I don't want that to be _my_ ending.

I don't know what I'm asking for; I will gladly accept any advice you can give, but…I suppose what I need is just…the knowledge that a dear friend is aware of the battle going on in my heart. And while I do apologize for dragging you in to the midst of all this…I also thank you for being such a dear, wonderful friend…who listens and doesn't complain. So thank you, Gwen…thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I am so looking forward to your visit this summer. I hope it is sooner rather than later, but of course I know it all depends on other factors, so whenever you are able to visit, know that I will be there at the gate, ready to greet you and embrace you!

Thank you, my friend. For everything, thank you.

—Sybil


	97. A Midnight Telegram

**_**If you haven't seen Season 3 and are avoiding spoilers for it, please SKIP the author intro, and go directly to the story below**_**

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><p><em>Hello everyone. Well, it's been a tough week for us SB fans, and I can't deny it was difficult to sit down and write this. But despite the sadness, I'm trying to push through and find writing to be helpful and theraputic. Also, in a note I had posted earlier this week, I announced that not only will I "Keep Calm and Carry On" writing this story, but I will also be writing a follow-up when this is completed or near completion called **Love's Continuing Journey**, which will be a "rewrite" of DA S3. I did post a **"preview chapter"** to that story, so if you haven't read it and wish to, go ahead! AND THANK YOU to everyone who has read it and sent feedback to that preview! I will try to reply over the next few days, but it is VERY touching and moving to see such excitement for that project!_

_This chapter begins to explore the events of S2E5, in particular the news of Matthew and William's injuries. I know these will be some difficult chapters to read, especially considering the mood of the fandom right now, but I hope you are able to enjoy them, and please, continue to send feedback to let me know your thoughts. Thank you!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Ninety-Seven<strong>

Another summer at Downton Abbey.

Another year away from his family…

All for a girl, who was dangling her decision on whether or not she loved him and wanted to be with him, like a piece of a bait to a hungry, desperate fish.

…At least that was how Martin would have looked at it, if he were there, offering his advice, even when it hadn't been asked for.

_But what a girl,_ he would argue to that cynical voice. _A woman worth fighting for, worth waiting for, worth everything. _ No, his cynicism and doubt was not going to get the best of him this summer. He would not let himself fall back into the reckless behavior that had not only nearly gotten him sacked last summer, but had also come so close in destroying his relationship with Sybil.

_What relationship? You sent her that apology letter in April, and it's nearly August! And despite pouring your heart to her…again…she still hasn't given you an answer!_

Once again, he gritted his teeth and told that voice to shut up. This was a different situation now; now, she was confronting her feelings, trying to decide how best to act on them. And while it had not been one of his finer moments, he had meant what he had said to her that day in the garage: _if she didn't care, she would have told them months ago_. And if that didn't work, he always reminded himself about how she referred to them as "us".

Still, as patient as he was trying to be for her, and as reassuring as he was trying to be for himself…there were moments when he wanted to march into the house, find her, and…

What? Confront her? No, he'd done enough of that. Tell her he loved her in front of everyone? No, that would only lead to embarrassment and resentment. Give her an ultimatum? No, because he knew he wouldn't be able to uphold it. Kiss her? God, that was tempting. She had the sweetest looking lips…

There was talk that the War would be over soon. Any day now, some would say. Branson couldn't help but scoff at the talk; he had heard that before. However, the Convalescent Home seemed to be getting busier, so much so that some of the "long-term residents" were finally leaving…including the damn major who Branson would forever be convinced had something to do with Ethel's sacking. Every so often he wondered how the former housemaid was getting on. Had she found work someplace else? It would be hard without a reference. Did she have family in the area to who she could rely, if times were tough? He had noticed that Mrs. Hughes took many…mysterious trips…on nearly each and every Sunday. Did it have to do with Ethel? He had overheard a housemaid talking one morning in the servant's hall, how on the night of the concert, a "mysterious woman" came to the house, in search of Mrs. Hughes. Had that been Ethel? He wondered if Anna knew anything; she and Ethel had shared a room, just as she had done with Gwen. Were they friends? He knew Anna felt sorry for Ethel, and even tried to reason with Mrs. Hughes about letting her stay on, despite the lack of knowledge as to why Mrs. Hughes had sacked her. Did Ethel keep in contact with Anna, the way Gwen did?

Anna was so happy to have her Mr. Bates back, however, that Branson doubted she was aware of anything else. Not that he minded; if this had been last summer, he would have been bitter and sarcastic. But Anna, bless her soul, was not only a good person, but a dear friend, and she deserved some happiness, perhaps more than anyone he knew. While they were still waiting for the divorce to come through, Branson knew that she and Bates were once again making plans for their future. This made him think about Sybil, and the plans they would make…_if_ she said yes.

As the summer passed, he watched Sybil work harder than he had seen her work in a long while. She would spend three days at the Convalescent Home, and four days at the hospital. For as busy as the Convalescent Home had become, it was nothing compared to the hospital, apparently. She had told him that Dr. Clarkson declared this to be a sign that the War was nearing completion, but that didn't really make a great deal of sense to him.

Yes, even though she hadn't given him an answer after writing her that apology…she didn't try to avoid him, unlike last summer. And certainly seemed to have "forgiven him" for his thoughtless statement about her work. But any talk they exchanged had nothing to do with…well, with "them". And perhaps it was because Lady Mary now knew the truth about them, because Sybil's visits to the garage weren't as frequent as they had been once upon a time. When she did come to the garage, there was always a "reason", as opposed to simply coming to talk to him because she wanted to talk to him. She needed to order the motor, or check with him about driving/getting someone else, and so on and so forth. And the only time she asked him to drive her was when she had a late night at the hospital, otherwise she would walk back and forth. It was moments like this that he wished she hadn't said anything to her sister…but then he told himself, "what's done is done", and tried to move forward without letting his frustrations get the better of his emotions.

Still…as July began to fade into August, he knew something had to be done. He wasn't Anna, he wasn't a saint. He was a man in love, and he was desperate. No amount of reading, note writing, and typing could appease the ache he was feeling to have her with him. In some ways, it was worse than before; she was on the precipice of giving him an answer, and he was a man on a ledge, clinging to the little bit of wall that he had to keep from falling into madness and despair.

Gwen had written to him quite a bit that summer. The first letter arrived at summer's beginning, announcing that she would be visiting before summer's end, and that yes, she would bring the children. He remembered going to Anna after receiving this letter, and the two of them laughed and told Bates all about little Annie and Tommy, and how much they were looking forward to seeing their dear friend. Then, about two weeks later, he received another letter from Gwen, one that was strange in its tone, because she sounded angry that he had "kept something" from her, but then it changed and began offering him words of reassurance, words of hope, telling him it was going to be alright, he just needed to be…patient.

What on earth was she going on about? It reminded him of that somewhat cryptic message she had given him last November, when he gone to visit her. Why was she upset with him? What did she mean by accusing him of "keeping something from her"? Granted, he had never told her "I love Sybil Crawley", but…surely she was aware. How could she not be? Or was it something else…?

He wasn't quite sure how to respond to such a letter, and so let it sit, deciding instead to type her a response, showing off how far he had come in his skills, even though the questions that letter raised continued to trouble him as the summer days passed.

While it was a busy summer for Sybil, Branson found the whole season to be rather boring. Once again, he was waiting…waiting for something to happen. Not just in his life, but in the life of the world, as well. It seemed everything was on hold, whether it was the War, or any news related to anything political, even the news about the Russian Tsar, which he had been following fairly closely. Yet all that began to change, one hot night in early August…

It was unusually hot, that night. Branson was having trouble sleeping, his cottage feeling stuffy and cramped. He had opened several windows, praying that a cool breeze would whisk through, but the air seemed dead and stagnant. He had pulled all the sheets off, as well as his undershirt, and was now giving some serious thought to perhaps sleeping in the nude, or even escaping to one of the ponds on the grounds for a late-night swim, when he heard footsteps approaching his cottage quickly.

In the six years he had lived at Downton Abbey, Branson had learned how to identify people just from the sound of their feet, crunching on the gravel outside. He knew Sybil's by heart, of course, and the second pair he knew was Mr. Carson's, followed by Anna, and a few of the other servants. But this pair was one he was not familiar with. And whoever they were, they seemed…panicked.

He rose and pulled on his undershirt, before moving to the door of the cottage. He was only a few steps away when he heard a rather desperate knocking. "Hello? Mr. Branson?"

Branson's brow furrowed. He knew that voice! He opened the door, and standing there was none other than Mr. Molesley, complete in his dressing gown and pajamas, looking stricken with worry and uncertainty. "Oh thank God!" Mr. Molesley gasped as he met Branson's eyes. "I'm so sorry to wake you, but…this is an emergency!"

"What's wrong?" Branson asked, his mind racing with a dozen different scenarios as to why Mr. Matthew's valet would come rushing all the way up here in the middle of the night.

Molesley didn't answer; he simply thrust the piece of paper into Branson's hand.

A telegram.

Branson felt his throat tighten at the sight of the ugly yellow envelope. The memories of receiving the telegram about Martin's death still haunted his mind, and still seemed like only yesterday.

"I…I didn't know what else to do…" Mr. Molesley all but whimpered. "I mean…Mrs. Crawley isn't here, but it's addressed to her; they must not know that she's in France, and…oh God, I fear the worst!"

Branson could understand why the man felt that way, all too well.

"Come on," he muttered, not bothering to put on shoes or a jacket (it was far too hot in his opinion, and he didn't own a dressing gown). "We'll tell Mr. Carson, he'll alert his Lordship."

However upon entering the house, it wasn't Mr. Carson they ran into, but Miss O'Brien, who had come down to the Servant's Hall, looking for something cool in the larder to help combat the heat. "Here now, what are you doing here?" she hissed at him as he entered the kitchens. He wasn't sure if that was due to her "indoor staff snobbery", or the fact that he had "caught her red-handed" in taking something without Mrs. Patmore's knowledge.

"Mr. Molesley came up here from Crawley House with a telegram."

"What?" O'Brien's look changed then, to one of confusion and then…concern. Molesley produced the telegram he had shown him, and Branson watched as O'Brien's face paled as realization washed over her. "I'll go inform her Ladyship at once," she whispered, quickly turning and rushing up the stairs.

"We should still find Mr. Carson and tell him, too," Branson murmured to Molesley, so they climbed the stairs to the servant's quarters, and within a matter of minutes, the butler and half a dozen other servants were up and about, asking questions, wondering out loud what the telegram said, and waking more and more people in the process.

The chaos continued as, despite Carson's order that everyone go back to bed, they followed him and Mrs. Hughes down the stairs to the library, where Molesley was ushered inside to wait for his Lordship. The rest of the staff, including Anna, Bates, Mrs. Patmore, and Daisy, waited in the hall, clutching robes and shawls to themselves as if it were the middle of January. Mr. Carson looked very agitated, especially when Mrs. Hughes didn't order any of the women to retreat back to their rooms; it was still, after all, a convalescent home, and there could be officers wandering around late at night.

"Oh God, I knew something bad had happened…" Daisy murmured next to him. "I felt it the other day; I felt someone walk over me grave…"

She wasn't talking about Mr. Matthew. As good and kind as Mr. Matthew was, he knew that Daisy, and in truth, the rest of the staff, were concerned about William, who would have been in Mr. Matthew's unit. Did that mean something had also happened to William?

Branson chose to risk any looks of disapproval from Mr. Carson, and put his arm around Daisy's shoulders to comfort her.

Overhead, footsteps could be heard. The voices were hushed, but they were clearly arguing.

"You should go back to bed! I'm sure it's nothing…"

"Oh don't be absurd Papa! You honestly think we'll be able to sleep now?"

Sybil's voice. He couldn't deny, the rebellious spirit in her always made him smile.

"I'm not leaving until I know what that telegram says," Lady Mary stated quite firmly, and Branson knew that any man, even the Earl of Grantham, would be most foolish to argue the point further.

"Mr. Molesley is in the library, milord," Carson explained as his Lordship and family entered the hall. "I um…apologize for…" he gestured towards the small crowd of staff who had followed him downstairs.

"It's alright," his Lordship muttered, although it was clear he was more concerned with the news of Molesley's telegram, than the fact that there was a crowd of servants standing in wait. He went into the library, her Ladyship close behind, followed the girls. Branson, of course, had his eyes on one girl in particular, and he felt his face heat up at the sight of her in her cream-colored dressing gown. It was so strange, in some ways…to see her in such an intimate way, recently risen from bed, her hair in a long braid down her back, a dressing gown thrown over what looked to be a white, lacy nightgown; he would be lying to say he hadn't dreamed of her in such a state of dress…or undress. But at the same time, despite this sight, he knew now was not the time for intimate thoughts. However, as she passed, he did, for the briefest moment, catch her gaze. She looked up at him, held his eyes for a blink of a moment, then quickly darted inside the library, behind her two sisters.

"Well," Mr. Carson began, shutting the door behind Sybil, after she disappeared into the library. "I think that it's best that you all go back upstairs—"

"But what about William?"

Everyone turned and looked at the small kitchen maid, standing so stoic and brave by his side. Branson remembered how when he first met Daisy, she seemed like such a mousy, timid creature. But now, in the midst of that crowd, she perhaps stood the tallest amongst them all, and certainly looked the most determined. She wasn't going anywhere, and Mr. Carson would be wasting his breath if he told her otherwise.

That didn't prevent him from trying. "I'm sure he's alright—"

"He was Capt. Crawley's valet," she continued, causing a small gasp because she interrupted Mr. Carson…again. "He would have been close to Capt. Crawley during the battle, he could be harmed too!"

Everyone turned their heads back to Carson, as if they were watching a tennis match. Mr. Carson was aware of this, and Branson could tell the man was bristling slightly. "We'll learn more later, Daisy, but right now, you and the others need to go back to bed—"

"No."

A gasp went up amongst the lot of them, and Branson was sure he even sucked in a breath at her disobedience. Still, he couldn't help but admit that he admired the rebellious spirit.

"I beg your pardon?" Mr. Carson gasped, puffing up his chest like some creature, trying to look large and forbidding. Mr. Carson didn't really need to do that, he was a good foot and a half taller than the kitchen maid, and his gaze was dark and forbidding enough. But she continued to stand her ground, and simply folded her arms across her chest, her eyes meeting his and daring him to order her again.

Thank God Mrs. Hughes intervened. "I don't think there's any harm in waiting to hear from his Lordship what the telegram has to say. Then, as soon as we learn the news, then we can go back to bed, agreed?"

Both Daisy and Mr. Carson looked reluctant, but silently nodded their heads.

"As if one can get any sleep after receiving something like that," Mrs. Patmore murmured under her breath. Branson felt sorry for the cook; she wasn't a stranger to losing someone dear, either.

"Alright," Mr. Carson grumbled, exchanging a grim look with Daisy, before turning and lightly tapping on the library door, before poking his head inside and clearing his throat to let his presence be known. "Beggin' your pardon, milord, but we're all very anxious to know the news…"

Daisy left Branson's side then, and pushed her way to the front of the small crowd, clutching her robe and looking anxious, like the rest of them, on what his Lordship had to say.

"Yes, of course," his Lordship murmured, opening the library door a little further to see them all. Branson noticed that he had opened the telegram, and that he kept glancing down at its contents. Once again, he felt his throat tighten as those memories of old returned. Yet his Lordship didn't appear too distressed, so perhaps it wasn't the worst news…

"It appears that a few days ago…" his Lordship began. "Capt. Crawley was wounded."

A small gasp went up from a few in the crowd, mainly from the older staff. Branson was sorry to hear this, but at the same time, he couldn't stop thinking about William, and he kept his eyes on the back of Daisy's head as his Lordship continued.

"It is serious, I'm afraid," his Lordship continued. "But he's alive and on his way home to the hospital in the village."

There was a pause amongst the lot of them. Branson knew this was meant to be a relief, but at the same time, there were a great many unanswered questions. He said that the injuries were serious; how serious? He had seen a great number of men recuperating at the house, men who had lost arms and legs, who had bandages covering their eyes and faces due to the horrible scarring left behind by the War. Had this sort of thing happened to Mr. Matthew? And still…what about William?

Mrs. Hughes' voice filled the silence. "Where there's life there's hope."

Branson didn't have time to contemplate her words, because Daisy's voice rang out firm and clear, no doubt causing Mr. Carson to close his eyes and groan. "What about William? Is he alright?" Yes, her voice sounded concerned, but a man would have to be a fool not to hear the soft demand in her tone.

His Lordship was clearly taken aback by her question; however he looked sympathetic and sadly shook his head, a sign that he had no answer. "I'll find out what I can tomorrow," he sighed, glancing at Carson. "I'm not sure there's much more we can do tonight."

Daisy clearly wasn't satisfied by this "dismissal", but thank heavens Bates spoke up before she could say anything that could get her into hotter water with Mr. Carson. "William's father would have had a telegram if anything had happened."

Branson found himself nodding in agreement. He looked up and saw Lady Edith come to her father's side at that point. "I'll drive over in the morning!" she offered, trying to sound positive, even though it was difficult to feel anything close to that emotion.

His Lordship gave Mr. Carson a nod, and Branson knew that was the end of the discussion. So, they knew the truth about the telegram; it wasn't an announcement of Capt. Crawley's death, but at the same time it told them very little, other than the fact that he was seriously wounded. And as for William, well…there was nothing to know, not yet at least.

Lady Edith left the library first, and Branson caught her eye and gave her a small smile and bow of the head. He would have offered to drive to Mr. Mason's house himself, if she hadn't said anything. Maybe he could coax her to let him come too? He was anxious to learn what had become of his friend, and after weeks of feeling somewhat useless, he would welcome the opportunity to be doing something, even if that was simply to go as her driving companion (he knew she would want to drive if she had the chance, and he wouldn't dream of taking that from her).

The other servants began to part, each going back to the servant's staircase, Mrs. Hughes leading the way. Mrs. Patmore had to guide Daisy, who still looked upset that she didn't have any more knowledge. Branson lingered just a little…waiting long enough to see Sybil follow her sister.

"Come along, Mr. Branson," Mr. Carson murmured, before clearing his throat as a sign to move along. He didn't have to look up into the butler's eyes to see the man's disapproval at his state of "undress"; he could feel the man's frown at the sight of him without shoes and no covering over his undershirt.

He sighed and nodded his head, but moved slowly, just catching Sybil's eyes once again as began to pass him and follow Lady Edith up the main staircase, back to her room. They held gazes once again, and he felt his cheeks warm once more, as her eyes drifted slightly down his body, taking in for the first time his appearance.

"Sybil?"

A small gasp escaped her mouth, and before her Ladyship, who was coming up the stairs right behind her could ask her what was wrong, she clutched her robe tightly to her body, and more or less sprinted up the steps, passing Edith and hurrying in the direction of her room.

Branson didn't bother to pause and watch her retreat. He didn't want to cause any further suspicion from Mr. Carson, nor did he want Lady Mary who was aware, to see him gazing at younger sister…in her nightclothes.

However, just before he disappeared down the stairs, he caught the sight of Lady Mary, emerging from the library in a rather "ghost-like" trance. Her ivory face looked even paler, and despite the summer heat, she seemed to be shivering by the way she wrapped her arms around herself.

There could be only one reason as to why she looked that way. And for the first time since he had known the eldest Crawley daughter, Branson felt a kinship with her.

Clearly, they were both pining for someone who still seemed so out of reach.


	98. Sybil's Diary XXIV

_Sorry for the delay! I know this fic maybe a little difficult to read, but please keep in mind that this story, even though it depicts moments from Series 2, is a part of an overall "AU" universe, where things will be/are better in the future. I hope that helps and continues to encourage people to keep reading it. ALSO, one of the things I've been reading on various blogs and tumblr sites, is that there is a yearning to have seen Sybil take on more political/social justice causes, like she was passionate for in Series 1. I tried to tap into that a bit with this chapter, and I hope it comes through. Thank you for reading, as always, and please, leave a comment and share your thoughts! _

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><p><strong>Chapter Ninety-Eight<strong>

August 14, 1918

Oh I could just wring Dr. Clarkson's neck! It's probably a good thing I didn't have a shift at the hospital today, otherwise…I would have!

…

…

I'm still fuming.

…

…

Oh Lord…STILL!

…

Two days ago we learned the dreadful news about Cousin Matthew and William's injuries. This afternoon, I learned from Papa, who I don't think has been off the phone with the War Office since we learned the news, that Matthew will be transported to Downton Hospital some time tomorrow. That's all very good, but…what about William?

Oh thank heaven for Edith. Thank heaven she had the gumption to drive to the Mason's home and find out what had become of him. Branson went with her too; I can't blame him, I know how much William means to everyone downstairs, he is a dear friend to them all…and…and I'd like to think of William as my own dear friend, too. I know he and I never carried on a great deal of conversations, not the way I do with Anna, or Gwen, or…or Branson, of course, but…still, I remember how we bonded at Gwen's wedding, and…oh Lord, it's just not right! It's not right that he's being denied the chance to come to Downton!

…

…

Edith drove to the Mason's. The whole point was to learn if William's father had also received a telegram, the same kind we had received for Matthew. Sadly…such a telegram had arrived, and…and poor Mr. Mason. I had a long shift at the hospital; I wasn't there when Edith and Branson returned. Pratt actually came and drove me from the hospital to the house, after taking Granny back to her home after dinner. I had been hoping that Branson would be driving me, I really wanted to find out what he had learned from Mr. Mason. It was far too late to go to Branson then, even though I was sorely tempted, I confess. But…he would be in his cottage and…and he would probably be trying to get some sleep…and…and…well, after seeing him in the hall that other night, I…I just couldn't…

…

…

Oh for heaven's sakes, listen to me! This is hardly the time! And it's not as if I've never seen a man in such a state; I've bandaged and bathed soldiers in _far less! _

…

But…but this is _Branson_ I'm talking about…

…

…

Oh stop it!

Honestly…

…

Edith was waiting up for me. I was surprised to find her in my room when I came home. She looked so sad, and…I believe she may have even been crying! I know this may sound awful, but…I didn't know that Edith even knew who William was! Oh that sounds so heartless, I shouldn't have doubted her. She's not the same person from four years ago; if anything positive can be said about the War, the fact that it has given my dear sister a sense of purpose and opened her eyes to the struggles of people from across class boundaries, it is that. Yes, she was waiting for me, and as soon as I entered the room, she didn't waste any time, she told me right away that Mr. Mason had received a telegram, that William was in a hospital in Leeds, and…oh God…

…

…

It's bad.

Very, very bad.

…

God, poor William…

…

…

…

I'm better now, I…I think, at least. Bloody tears, causing the ink to run…

Edith didn't understand the details, but…according to what she said, the doctors are _not_ positive. His lungs were badly damaged, and they think his ribs may have collapsed in on them, and…oh God, I wish I had been there, I may have been able to make sense of the bloody telegram, but…whatever it said, the verdict seemed to the same: it's not good. Which, if I have learned anything in my training, comes to mean, it is highly unlikely that he will live.

…

…

This isn't right! William, wonderful, brave, William _saved_ Matthew! That's what Edith told me, that the telegram described how William pushed Matthew out of the way of a shell, and took a brunt of the explosion, and…

…

No, no, it's not right and_ it's not fair!_ A man does something so brave, sacrifices his own safety to save another, he should NOT suffer for it, and he certainly shouldn't die!

…

…

…

I had to pause in my writing. I'm just…so shaken by everything. That news that Edith gave me, that wasn't tonight, but last night! I couldn't face writing an entry last night after receiving such news.

And all the luck, too, of course. I'm at the hospital while Edith and Branson go to Mr. Mason's, and I'm here at the Convalescent Home when she and Granny go to talk to Dr. Clarkson.

One minute I am weeping, and the next, I am fuming with such deep anger!

The Convalescent Home is for "officers only" (who made this bloody rule in the first place?) It is ONLY right that William be brought back to Downton…and…and if it's true that nothing can be done for him…then…then yes, bring him to Downton. That is what Granny declared yesterday, according to what Edith told me. That she would do battle and have William brought back here, and despite all those moments earlier this year when I wanted to throttle Granny for her snobbery, I wanted to cheer and hug her and thank her and cheer her on! Oh God, I wanted to be there, with her and Edith, when they went to Dr. Clarkson, I even went to Nurse Daniels, begging that she let me change shifts this one time…

No, she said. We have to be "firm" with our schedule and "rigid" with our routine, that if we disrupt any of this…it will only cause distress to the men we are serving.

…

…

UTTER TRIPE!

…

…

Oh Lord, it took everything I had to not…strike out at her for those words!

…

I avoided her the rest of the day; I wasn't good company to keep with anyone, really. Just as Mary kept wandering in and out of Papa's study to see if he had learned anything further about what time Matthew was expected to be at the hospital, I kept wandering in and out of the hall, looking to see if Branson was driving Granny and Edith back, looking to see if they had any success.

…

They arrived later this afternoon, an hour before tea. The look on Granny's face…

Edith didn't have to tell me things hadn't gone well, Granny's livid expression said it all. Yet I still begged for Edith to fill me in further, which she kindly did, although I too was feeling more and more livid with each passing word.

Once again, Dr. Clarkson reminded Granny that the home is strictly for officers. I…honestly, I can't believe him! Was it my imagination? I know Cousin Isobel shared my sentiments that the Convalescent Home should be open to more than just officers, but I was so sure Dr. Clarkson felt the same way!

Although I suppose I shouldn't be too shocked, coming from the same man who insisted that Lt. Courtney be moved well before he was ready, thus leading to the poor man's suicide!

…

…

Alright, that was unkind. But…oh, I'm just so angry! William may "just be a private", but he's not a stranger here! Why, I remember how Papa argued for Evelyn Napier to be allowed to the house, even though he was part of another unit. Despite Dr. Clarkson's misgivings, he let it happen! So why can't the same happen for William, too? Because he's a "lowly private"? Or…because he's a former servant?

…

This isn't right. This is more than wrong, this is unjust! William is a hero, and should be given a hero's welcome and treated like one in a place where he's surrounded by people who care about him, not strangers in a town that isn't even his! And…is it wrong of me to worry that he's lying in that hospital, in Leeds, and Jane Hamley, that horrid girl from nursing school who was also from Leeds, is possibly the one _in charge_ of looking after him? Good God, no!

So William is supposed to stay and live what could be his last days, in some hospital in Leeds, far away from his home and family and friends, because if we allow him to come back to Downton, suddenly we'll be swamped with people from half the county, wanting their sons, husbands, and brothers to be cared for at Downton. My answer to this? GOOD! We should NEVER have allowed ourselves to become a Convalescent Home to just the titled, wealthy, and privileged! Oh God, I…I can't believe I didn't fight harder for this when we were starting; _I should have fought harder!_ I should have insisted! And I should have fought harder for Lt. Courtney too. And…and I should have fought harder against Nurse Daniels…_and_ Dr. Clarkson! Yes, even though my shift is here tomorrow, I have a right mind to break their precious rules and regulations, and go to the hospital to see Matthew when he arrives, and give Dr. Clarkson a piece of my mind! Who knows? Perhaps I WILL wring his neck!

…

…

God bless Granny. God bless her stubbornness and determination! Perhaps I do have more of my grandmother in me than I thought? She is going to continue doing battle, and I caught a glimpse of that when I saw her and Edith steal away into the library to use the telephone, no doubt to make some calls to various "higher ups" on the Leeds Hospital Board, or perhaps even to the War Office, itself! Lord, it wouldn't surprise me if she tried to call Buckingham Palace, and demand an audience with the King. It's moments like these that remind me why I love her so, and Edith too, who told me she volunteered to personally keep watch on William, if they are able to bring him back here. Dear Edith; she's not a nurse, not a trained one, but I know she will do whatever it takes and take whatever instruction is necessary to care for dear William.

I don't know how if anything positive came from Granny's telephone calls. She didn't stay for dinner tonight, and if truth be told, I had little appetite, so feigned a headache when it came time to gather. Really, all I want to do now, more than anything, is find Branson and ask him what he makes of all of this.

As if I really need to do that; I'm sure he feels the same as I do, perhaps with even more passion, as he has had to face injustices like this a great deal more as a working class Irishman. I can spout on and on about the lack of rights I face as a woman, but at least I am a woman of privilege; I'm not starving in the street, I'm freezing in the cold. Although it's hard to imagine anyone freezing in this blasted heat.

I am truly giving some serious thought, however, to what I said, about ignoring my shift here, and going to the hospital to greet Matthew. I should be there, it would be right for him to have a friendly, familiar face when he arrives. And really, sometimes Branson's words seem to ring so true; "what work" indeed? Yes, let someone else serve the hot drinks; I know where I am needed, and I know where I can do the most good.


	99. 1918: A Fourth Letter to Gwen

_First off, THANK YOU to everyone who has encouraged me to continue. I appreciate it so much, and I'm glad that people are still able to read this and despite initial pains, are able to overcome them and focus on the beauty that is Sybil and Tom Branson's love. So please, continue to read and follow and let me know your thoughts...and remember, that in my Downton universe, while there will be drama and rough seas every so often, THIS SHIP DOES NOT SINK! :o)_

_Well, after writing yesterday's chapter, I really felt motivated to get this one out too. Originally I was going to jump right in and tackle the "conversation" between Sybil and Branson where he says that she's very good at hiding her feelings, and they nearly have an argument (you could argue that they in fact do, but it's much tamer than what they have had in the past, possibly because of the shock they are feeling with what is happening to their loved ones) BUT I realized that someone needed to tell poor Gwen about all this, that she was a good friend of William's and would want to know...so I put the confrontation momentarily to the side, and wrote this chapter first. Don't worry, that scene will be the next chapter (the magical 100th chapter!) but until then, I hope you enjoy this!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Ninety-Nine<strong>

Dear Gwen,

God above…I…I don't really know where to begin.

…

…

Right, I'll just come out and say it.

We received word, a few nights ago, that William…that William was injured.

…

Forgive me, Gwen, I'm trying to be straightforward and not drag any of this out, but…Lord help me, it's hard to sit here and write this. One minute I want to rage and throw things against the wall at the unnecessary stupidity of it all, and the next…I want to collapse into a blubbering mess.

I…I don't know how badly his injuries are. Mr. Molesley came up to the house in the middle of the night, to deliver a telegram to his Lordship about Mr. Matthew's injury (that's how we learned about William). Lady Edith and I went to Mr. Mason's house the following morning, to learn if poor William suffered the same fate. God, Gwen, I can't tell you how much I was hoping it wouldn't be so, that we would arrive and Mr. Mason would look at us strangely while Lady Edith attempted to learn if he had heard anything about his son's well-being. Or better yet, we would arrive and find William there, sitting with his father and having a cup of tea. But no such luck, I'm afraid. We arrived (Lady Edith drove) and…and the door was open. We poked our heads inside and found him, sitting there, at the table…looking like…looking like a statue, frozen in time…staring down at a scrap of paper, tears rolling down his cheeks…and murmuring over and over_…"my little boy…"_

…

…

…

I'm sorry, Gwen, I…you understand.

…

I'm trying to cling to the hope that…that we don't know anything. Or I don't, I should say. Mr. Mason shared the telegram with Lady Edith (I stood in the background, although it was killing me not to take the telegram from her hand and read it for myself). Nothing further was said, really, but…Lady Edith looked so pale. And…she actually asked if I would be willing to drive back to Downton, which I can't help but take as a bad sign (ever since I taught her how, I've never seen Lady Edith refuse the opportunity to drive). We didn't return to the house, not right away; instead, we stopped at the Dowager Countess' home, where she was informed about what had happened.

I'm sorry Gwen, really I am. I wish I could be sending you happier news, sharing stories about Bates humiliating Thomas and Miss O'Brien, but…no, I can't even do that, because say what you will about the both of them, they surprised me today by showing that they not only feel sorry for poor William, but…but like myself, like all of us, I think, they too see the injustice in it all.

I'll explain, as I'm sure that doesn't make a great deal of sense.

Today, Lady Edith and Old Lady Grantham went to the hospital here in Downton, to try and convince Dr. Clarkson to let William come back here. He's at some hospital in Leeds, Gwen; he's lying on a bed, somewhere in Leeds, alone, surrounded by complete strangers, and God knows what else, and…and…

…

…

Sorry, I had to get up and quite literally, walk several laps around the cottage, for fear I would break something in my moment of fury.

William is in Leeds, and God bless her, the Dowager Countess is trying to get him back here. To the hospital, or to the house, I don't know, but she's trying to get him back here, so his father can see him, and where the rest of us can see him, but apparently, according to what I was able to overhear between Old Lady Grantham and Lady Edith, Dr. Clarkson is "forbidding it".

Bloody bureaucrat!

I don't know the details (like the telegram William's father received, neither of them shared a great deal of information with me) but I can only assume it's because William is a working class private, and the home is for posh officers.

…

Forgive me, I had to rise again.

As soon as I got back to the house, Daisy ran out to the garage, asking if I had any further news, if I had learned anything else. God, the look in her eyes, the pleading stare. Maybe you're right, Gwen; maybe Daisy does love William, at least a little bit. She certainly cares about him, her worry was quite genuine, and it broke my heart that I had to tell her what I suspected.

She was in a right mood after that, but who can blame her? I was in a right mood myself, so it's just as well that I was left to myself, with no further company after tea. I was in the kitchens when O'Brien and Thomas took notice of Daisy's chilly behavior. I was ready to tell them to…well…to "go off" somewhere, if they tried to tease her, but much to my own shock, and possibly the shock of others, O'Brien and Thomas shared their disgust with this most recent revelation alongside me and the others. Indeed, O'Brien looked like she could march down to the hospital and commit murder after hearing Daisy tell her that Dr. Clarkson was refusing to let William return, and Thomas even muttered something against the man, before going off and sounding rather "socialist" about how our lot is always the one that gets shafted. I have to say, I was impressed.

Poor Daisy…she feels that…that this is all, somehow her fault. I know that sounds strange, but I think it's because she allowed William to think she cared more for him than she presently does, that somehow agreeing to be more than sweethearts, to being engaged, has…caused this. As if William is being punished for her deceit.

I don't know, Gwen, I…it angers me, just…how this all happened. William was so eager to go to War; he was so eager to go and do his part. I can't deny there were many times I would hear him talk about it, and I wanted to throttle him and tell him to shut up. I always thought he was misguided, that he saw the War as a chance to play "tin soldiers" or something like that; that he just didn't understand the dangers he would be facing. But…maybe I was wrong. Maybe William did understand all that, but despite that knowledge, he still wanted to be a part of it. The two of us, meaning myself and William, we…we never really sat down and talked about our differing opinions on the War. I remember thinking it was because I didn't want to hear him "stand up and defend it", when I saw it as a slaughter of young men by a bunch of corrupt politicians. Not to mention my perspective as an Irishman who longs for independence. But…now that I think about it, I realize that William and I are not that different. We're both patriots in our own way, just…for different causes.

I pray the Dowager Countess is successful in her pursuit. She's not giving up; I heard her say so to Lady Edith herself, that this was by no means the "end of the discussion". Lord, Gwen…listening to her talk, listening to that fire, I can see where Sybil got it from. I think there were moments where I had to turn my head, just slightly, to make sure it was Old Lady Grantham and not Sybil in the backseat!

I haven't been able to talk to her about all this, not yet at least. You know who I'm talking about. She's been busy this week, and I'm sure the news that her cousin was injured hasn't lessened that busyness. But I'm sure Lady Edith has told her about William; I can't imagine Sybil not wanting to know. I…I can't deny, I was hoping she would come to me; it's very late here, but I've been purposefully keeping the lamps on, with hopes that maybe she will come. I keep expecting to hear her footsteps outside, to hear her knocking urgently on my cottage door, or perhaps to come in through the garage, but…no, she hasn't come. It's just as well, really; as I mentioned, I'm not the best company right now. I'm sure her sister has told her everything, and can probably tell her even more than I know, so…well, as I said, it's just as well.

…

…

I'm so sorry Gwen. I'm sorry I had to send you such a letter. Did I do the right thing? I figured you would want to know. Maybe Anna has already written to you, maybe you'll receive a letter from her too, about all this. She and Mr. Bates went to the church this afternoon to pray for Mr. Matthew and William, while I was driving her Ladyship and Lady Edith. I would have gone with them if I could have; I may be an Irish Catholic, but I don't think God will strike me down for entering an Anglican church to offer up a prayer. I doubt God cares about any of that, so long as the prayer is sincere. Which is what I should do; finish this letter, and offer up a prayer for William, as well as Mr. Matthew. I don't know the extent of his injuries, but I gather from what Lady Edith told me, they aren't good either.

I promise to keep you informed as best I can. Whatever I learn, I will write and send you the details. God bless you, Gwen; God bless you and your family. I pray that when I write next, it will be with happier news than this.

Affectionately,

—Tom


	100. Truth and Emotion

_I can't believe it...it's my 100th chapter! And there's still so much to share/tell/write! But this certainly is a milestone, and I want to take a moment to thank ALL OF YOU who read, follow, favorite, and comment. When I first started this story, I wondered if anyone would care for a "retelling", that mainly consisted of letters and journal entries, but as the months have passed, I continue to be more and more amazed by the encouragement and support I have received from this community, so *thank you* for that, and for helping me get to this point!_

_Now, as I said, there is still a great deal more to tell, but this chapter focuses around a certain scene between our lovely couple, where the issue regarding "feelings" comes up. I confess, when I watched the scene, I wasn't satisified that it just "ended" there; I wanted to see more of an exchange between the two of them, even if that meant an argument. And then I tried to think about Branson's words and why he asked her about Mary being in love with Matthew, and as I began to think of all the events leading up to this conversation...things just seemed to fall into place, both with what was happening in/around the house...and what was going on between Sybil and Tom. I hope you enjoy this 100th chapter, and thank you again for helping me get to this point!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred<strong>

Tom Branson was frustrated…and that was putting it lightly.

He was frustrated that he didn't know anything further about William's condition; he had hoped that maybe Daisy had learned more news, but she was just as much in the dark as he and the rest of the staff. He had hoped that Lady Edith would request the motor again, that he would be summoned to drive her and the Dowager Countess back to the hospital, or Mr. Mason's home, or perhaps even to Leeds, to where William currently was. And he certainly had hoped that Sybil would come find him. After he had finished writing his letter to Gwen, he stayed awake, long past a "reasonable" hour, hoping that Sybil would once again show her rebellious side, that side he so loved, and come to him.

He imagined her knocking at the door, or, as he had written to Gwen, coming the garage to find him and calling his name. He imagined going to her, and she looking up at him and murmuring something about "this is terrible", before proceeding to sit down and reveal everything he didn't know, not fully…and while they talked and vented their worries…he imagined them holding hands. He imagined his thumb being able to run over her knuckles in a comforting gesture. He imagined her smaller, more delicate fingers, giving his a reassuring squeeze. And, if he were truly honest, he imagined her moving closer…and wrapping her arms around his waist, and hugging him…

…Yes, he imagined that part the most.

But she didn't come; the night passed and there was no knocking, either at his cottage door or in the garage. And even when the morning came, he was still hopeful; hopeful that perhaps she would come looking for him then…

However, he was surprised when it was a different Crawley who came in search of him.

He was just on his way back to the garage from the Servant's Hall, hoping that perhaps Daisy had learned something new, when Lady Mary spotted him.

"Branson!" she called out and he froze, his heart hammering in his chest as he turned to face her. Oh God, was this the moment? Ever since Sybil had told him that Lady Mary was aware of his feelings for her youngest sister, he kept expecting her to march down to the garage and threaten him upon point of death if he ever said one more word to Sybil. As spring turned to summer, he kept expecting that to happen, so perhaps now, when his defenses were at their lowest due to his confusion and frustration about what was happening to his friend, she had come to rip him apart.

Figuratively, of course. Well, perhaps not.

He turned and lifted his chin, prepared for the onslaught, prepared for the insults and the threats and perhaps even the sacking. What would he tell Sybil? How would he be able to tell her? He wouldn't have enough time to leave her a note!

"I would like you to drive me to Downton Hospital."

A shaky breath escaped his lungs. "Of course, milady," he politely replied, hoping the nervousness that he had been feeling didn't show. "When would you like to travel?"

"As soon as possible, please."

She didn't wait for his response. She turned and headed straight for the garage, which was a little unusual for Lady Mary; she always did things "just so", like Old Lady Grantham. He couldn't remember her ever going to the garage instead of waiting at the front of the house, and he certainly couldn't recall a time where she just helped herself inside, without even bothering to wait for him.

Branson quickly buttoned up his livery jacket and donned his cap, and within a matter of seconds, the Renault was pulling away from the garage and beginning its journey to the hospital.

It was a quiet journey, but then all of his journeys with just Lady Mary were that way. She would either look out the window, watching the passing scenery, or be looking down at a book while she traveled. There was no book in her hands this time, but Branson was aware of a small bag which presently was resting on her lap. Every so often, she would open the bag, look down at its contents and run her fingers over whatever objects lay inside. He couldn't tell what they were, but he had a feeling there was a connection between them and Mr. Matthew.

That much he did know, at least. Yesterday, he had overheard Lady Edith and the Dowager Countess talk about Mr. Matthew (or Capt. Crawley) arriving from London some time on Wednesday—which was today. And he easily recalled the distraught look Lady Mary wore on her face, as she exited the library, the night Mr. Molesley brought the telegram.

He was never one who really paid much attention to the so-called "love lives" of the Crawley family, save for Sybil, of course. He remembered Lady Edith telling him a little about a cousin named Patrick and then an older gentleman, Sir Anthony Strallen, when he was teaching her how to drive. And it was practically impossible for one not to be aware of the "hot and cold" relationship that was being danced between Mr. Matthew and Lady Mary. But that was before the War, of course. Now, he knew Mr. Matthew was engaged to another woman and Lady Mary was being courted by the newspaper gentleman. They each seemed to have gone into new directions…and yet, they also seemed to be unable to entirely…"escape"…one another, either.

Upon reaching the hospital, Lady Mary thanked him for the drive and then murmured something about calling the house when she was ready to leave. He murmured his reply, and once again soon found himself back on the road, this time heading back to Downton.

For the first time since…well, since he had come to Downton Abbey, Branson found himself contemplating the love-lives of Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew. What had prevented them from marrying? He remembered Sybil telling him, shortly after returning from her London Season, that an announcement would soon be made for her sister and cousin, but no announcement ever arrived. What had happened between them? He had heard stories from members of staff about how much the two seemed to hate one another, upon first meeting, but then little by little, it seemed they were "warming up" to one another. _"A match made in heaven!"_ Mr. Carson had once declared, to which Mrs. Hughes gave a rather unladylike snort, in reply. He did recall Sybil, every so often, saying something about the two of them. Sometimes she seemed to share Mr. Carson's sentiments; that she thought her sister and cousin were perfect for one another…and other times, her sentiments were more along the lines of Mrs. Hughes' snort, where she would mutter something under her breath about how stupid and stubborn the two of them were being.

Obviously, somewhere over the years since he had come to work at Downton, something had happened to drive the two in different directions and pursue other people. And yet…there was something still there. _"You never forget your first love…"_ his mother had once said. Did that explain this strange connection that still seemed to exist between Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew? They were each other's first loves, and therefore struggled to…move forward?

A new thought entered his mind, then. He hadn't lived the life of a monk; he had courted a few girls back in Ireland, and yes, he had even dallied with a few. But ever since coming to England, and ever since meeting Lady Sybil Crawley, all that had changed. His "Casanova" days were gone (not that his experiences could be counted beyond a few fingers on one hand). He also realized that those past experiences meant very little because his heart had never been involved. He had fancied other women before, he had lusted for other women before…but he had never _loved_ another woman…not until Sybil.

He meant what he had said in that letter. She was the only girl in the world for him; no other could replace her. If Sybil turned him down for good, then he might as well go and take monk's orders, because he knew he couldn't find happiness with any other. He couldn't be like Mr. Matthew or Lady Mary, and "try" to move forward from his first love with another person. It could work for some, but he knew it wouldn't work for him. Besides…who was to say it was working for them anyway? From the way Lady Mary had looked both the other night, and just now, one could argue that those feelings were still there, and still very, very strong.

Damn it all, why did they insist on putting up a façade over their true feelings? Was it an English trait? Or something unique to posh people? He hated to think this way, but…was it because they were women? He was all for equal rights, but he had to admit, there were times when women just drove him mad and he sometimes wondered why he and other men put up with the drama they brought forth?

When he got back, he went inside once again, wondering if there was any new news about William. And apparently there was! Mrs. Hughes informed him that Pratt had taken her Ladyship, the Dowager Countess, Mr. Mason, and Lady Edith, to Leeds!

He stared at the housekeeper, completely dumbstruck by this revelation. "But…but I could have driven them—"

"You were busy taking Lady Mary to the hospital, and her Ladyship didn't want to waste another minute," Mrs. Hughes explained. What more could really be said? He tried not to show his disappointment as he walked out the door and returned to the garage. This recent news was doing nothing to help calm his frustrations…and keep them from festering into unnecessary anger.

He threw off his livery jacket and removed a rag; oddly enough, he found wiping the car down an effective way to calm his nerves. However, he had barely begun his task when that all too familiar sound of a certain pair of footsteps filled his ears.

For the briefest moment, a smile began to spread at the corners of his mouth. Finally! She had come, she was here! After two whole days of not seeing her or speaking with her, she had finally come to him at last. However, any traces of a smile that he had been showing quickly disappeared as she made her announcement. "Can you drive me to the hospital?"

It was a simple request. Nothing really worth getting worked up over. However…it was a combination of things: the fact that she hadn't come to him, even though he had been hoping and praying so many times the previous two days and nights that she would. The fact that he was still in the dark about William's condition, and no one seemed to be willing to share any information with him; William was nothing but a former servant to all of them, but to him, William was a dear friend! The fact that he had just taken Lady Mary there, and because of this task, had missed the opportunity to drive to Leeds to see William first hand. And yes, even the fact that despite the apology he had written to her earlier in the spring, he still didn't quite know where he stood with her. All of these feelings were crashing and flowing through him, that when he replied, it sounded much harsher than it should.

"Aren't you needed here? I've already taken Lady Mary down."

He winced slightly; God, he sounded like a bitter adolescent.

Apparently Sybil didn't seem to notice. She looked off into the distance and shook her head. "I know…" she sighed. "But I want to be with her when Capt. Crawley arrives," she paused, as if assessing her next move, before nodding her head with a look of determination. "They can manage without me for a while."

Under any other circumstances, this would not have given Branson pause. Sybil was always caring and showed great concern for others. It was just like her to think of her cousin…and her sister. However, he recalled his drive with Lady Mary, and his thoughts about her and Mr. Matthew…and his frustrations with how no one seemed to be willing to say what they were really thinking…or feeling, for that matter.

"Is she still in love with him?"

His question, which really sounded more like a statement, certainly caught Sybil's attention. She paused where she stood and looked at him with uncertain eyes. "I…I don't want to talk about it…" she murmured.

_She's not stupid; she knows you're not really talking about Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew_, a voice in his mind chastised him. He swallowed and gritted his teeth slightly at the thought. It was true; the question (or statement rather) was quite loaded…and didn't necessarily encompass _just_ Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew's relationship.

But he had his back up now, and all those frustrations from before, about not knowing what was happening, both in William's case, and between him and Sybil, were finding a way to pour out.

While his face looked humorous, only an idiot would think the humor in his eyes was sincere. "Why?" he questioned. "Because I'm 'the chauffeur'?"

However, he had learned long ago that Sybil wasn't one to back down from a challenge, and no doubt she recognized the challenge in his voice. "No…" she answered, her voice steady, but it was obvious she was growing uncomfortable…and annoyed. "Because she's my sister."

_Fair answer, you have to give her that_. Indeed; but that didn't keep him from dropping the subject…not yet, at least.

He chuckled, but there was no mirth in his voice. "You're good at hiding your feelings, aren't you?" he murmured, tossing the rag on the ground. He began pulling his jacket on, but his eyes never left her face. "All of you…" he continued, his gaze penetrating hers and daring her to look away. "Much better than we are."

It was a loaded statement, just as his question about whether or not Lady Mary still loved Mr. Matthew had been loaded. Did he mean aristocrats to working class? English to Irish? Women to men? Crawley women to _anyone?_ Yes…perhaps he meant all of them. But he couldn't deny, he certainly _wasn't_ talking about Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew anymore.

As he shrugged the jacket on, Lady Sybil, who only blinked a few times, held his gaze, sure and steady. He could tell that his words had left their mark…but at the same time, her eyes left one on him, and he could feel her disappointment.

"Perhaps," she finally murmured to his statement. "But we do have feelings," she muttered, and once again, he inwardly winced at the cold bitterness he could hear in her voice. "And don't make the mistake of thinking that we don't." Without another word, she climbed into the car all on her own, shutting the door quite soundly behind her, and folding her hands on her lap and keeping them there while she waited for him to come around and get in.

His eyes followed her movements, and he felt his jaw crack at how tightly he was clenching it. _Say something, damn it! Weren't you just thinking earlier how you can't stand that none of these people say what they're really thinking and feeling? Enough with the cryptic messages, tell her, confront her! Demand to know where she stands on her feelings with you!_

However, another voice, one that claimed to be his voice of reasoning, began a different argument. _Good God, stop being so selfish! You just learned that William was badly injured, that he may in fact be dying for all you know; can't you shove aside your own desires for once and be like Sybil and try to think of others? And do you really want to start another row, when not so long ago, you poured your heart out to her, asking for her forgiveness?_

He put on his hat and started the car, trying to ignore both battling voices and concentrating on just driving, just driving, just driving to get her there without opening his mouth and saying something he may regret.

In the end, he didn't have to say anything.

…She said it.

"Stop the car!"

Her demand was so abrupt that it nearly caused him to run the car off the road! He cursed under his breath as he got his hold on the wheel once again, and tried to turn his head to look at her, to see if he had heard her correctly.

"I said, stop the car!"

Yes, he had heard her correctly.

She looked murderous, and he didn't dare question her further. He quickly turned the car off the main road, onto a side road, one very similar to the side road where he had pulled over when she had been upset over what was happening to that blind officer. However, then, her murderous looks were for Dr. Clarkson—now, _he_ was the one receiving the brunt of her stare.

He had no sooner put the break in park, when she reached across from the backseat and grabbed his shoulders, forcing him to turn around and face her.

"How dare you!" she shouted. "How dare you imply that I don't have feelings! That I don't care!" She shoved his shoulders for extra measure, but his hands quickly came up and grasped her wrists.

"Well don't you?" he growled back, thrusting her arms away from him. Apparently they _were_ going to have that row. Fine, it was needed.

She glared at him. "Oh I see; is that your answer to everything? I don't 'call you out' to my family, it means I'm in love with you. I don't answer your question about my sister, it means I have no feelings!" She tried to shove him again, but he caught hold of her wrist, but unlike last time, he didn't let go. Instead, he gave a tug and she gasped as he pulled her forward, until her face was mere inches away from his.

"_I don't know_ what you feel!" he growled, his voice a lower pitch than he had ever heard it. "You haven't _told_ me."

She stared at him, her eyes wide and her face growing pinker by the second at the proximity she was to him. She tried to wriggle free, but he kept his hold on her wrist, although he was careful not to hurt her.

"Unhand me at once!" she hissed. "Or I'll slap you!"

He decided to take his chances. "Then slap me," he challenged. "At least that will be a sign of genuine emotion!"

She glared at him. "I'm serious—"

"So am I," he grumbled. "If you want to slap me, then do it! If you despise me, then tell me so!"

"You're impossible—"

"No, I'm just tired of being toyed with."

"Toyed with?" Sybil gasped, her eyes widening with shock, before glowing with fury. "I can't believe…" she was sputtering, an array of emotions flashing across her face. "You think I'm _toying_ with you?"

"Why not?" he muttered. "Isn't that what posh girls like you do? Find some stable boy or footman to flirt with, break a few hearts—"

The crack of the smack on his cheek shut him up, and his face burned as the sting of her fingers spread across his skin. He released her wrist, and she pulled it back…but she didn't pull herself away from him. She was still leaning close, and she was breathing very hard, as if what she had just done had required herculean strength. Perhaps it had? He flexed his jaw slightly and winced; she had a powerful hand.

Suddenly, he felt his own wrist being grabbed, and he looked down and saw that she was tugging him now, and he was at her mercy…although if truth be told, he had always been at her mercy. "I have seen those kinds of girls, the ones who toy with the hearts of others. I have seen their games of manipulation…and I want NO part of it!" she growled with a ferocity that sent shivers down his spine. God help him, he would be lying if he said that he wasn't just a bit aroused by the fire in her voice. "What you said to me…what you're asking of me…it's not something to be taken lightly! It's not something to…to…to just be frivolous with!" she growled. "I'm sorry if that doesn't sound romantic to you, but this _is_ serious to me! What you said to me, and what you asked of me _demands_ serious thought! And…and…and damn it, _we_ deserve that!" she swore, before finally letting go of his wrist and folding her arms over her chest and slumping back into her seat. "Although I don't know why," she grumbled. "Serves you right if I tell you 'no'."

He stared at her, not caring anymore about the slap he had received. He was still hanging on the words she had just said.

_"It's not something to be frivolous with; this is serious to me! What you said, what you asked, it demands serious thought! We deserve that!"_

She was thinking about it. _Seriously_ thinking about it.

It wasn't a direct yes…but at the same time, it was the biggest, hopeful confirmation he had received since…since…since she had referred to them as "us".

"Oh stop smiling!" she snapped, giving him a frosty glare. He hadn't even realized he was until she brought it to his attention.

He quickly swallowed the chuckle that attempted to burst. "Yes, milady."

"And stop that too!" she grumbled, before rolling her eyes. "Or…do you want another slap?" she threatened with a lift of her wrist.

"God no!" he leaned away, although he found himself biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning at the glare she was giving him. "I've learned my lesson, thank you."

She nodded her head with satisfaction…but then found herself gazing at his reddening cheek. "Oh dear," she muttered, nibbling on her bottom lip. "Perhaps…when we get to the hospital, we should put a cold compress—"

"Oh God, please, no, no, I'll be fine, honestly," he tried not to, but he couldn't help but laugh at her sweet concern for him, even though he could tell she was still quite livid. "I've survived Dublin pub fights without medical attention—I will survive this."

For the first time since they had stopped, she actually put on a little smile. "I think that is your 'male pride' talking, Mr. Branson. Afraid to admit you were beaten by a girl?"

He shook his head, although he was chuckling deeply. "A momentary lapse on my part; I should have remembered what a wicked 'right hook' you have; I still remember that day when I found you at the flower show—and how you were beating the wall with your fists. And then of course there was that story about the fight you got into with that other nurse—"

"Oh stop," she groaned, although she was beginning to smile more now. She caught his eye…and then a giggle burst from her lungs. He soon found himself joining in her laughter, and the two of them had a good chuckle for several minutes, dispensing of all the pent-up frustrations that clearly they _both_ had been harboring.

As the laughter began to fade, a more serious air began to settle around them once more. He noticed that she looked…bothered…by something. He opened his mouth to ask, but her question beat him to it. "Do you…do you really think of me as…as one of those…?" her voice trailed off, and Branson felt his heart tighten as he saw the fear in her eyes, the fear that she was something she clearly had been fighting against.

"No," he answered. It was a tiny word, and yet it held so much meaning. "No, I really don't think you're like those girls…I don't think you're like any gir—woman, I've ever met." He held her gaze, not blinking once. "I apologize for my words; they were…spoken out of frustration and…anxiety over recent events."

"William," she whispered. It wasn't a question, it didn't need to be. He nodded his head and looked down in amazement, as she leaned forward…and took hold of his hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. _Just as you had hoped and imagined…_

"I…sometimes, I feel like…I'm being left in the dark on purpose," he admitted, lifting his eyes from their clasped hands to hers, once again. "That I'm not…worthy…of knowing what's happening."

"You _are_," she stated, squeezing his hand once more. He looked down at their hands, and then carefully moved his other hand…and slowly covered hers with it, until her hand was gently sandwiched between his. He looked up then, and saw that lovely pink hue on her cheek glow brightly, but she didn't try to pull away, nor did she look away from his searching gaze. He hadn't just been referring to William in that statement…and he had a strong feeling, Sybil knew that.

_"It's not something to be frivolous with; this is serious to me! What you said, what you asked, it demands serious thought! We deserve that!"_

We deserve that. _We_…deserve that. Those had been her words…and he knew she meant them.

Yes, she _did_ have feelings. He was fool to ever doubt otherwise.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, before reluctantly removing his top hand from hers. "As I said…I spoke out of frustration—"

"It's alright," she whispered, her eyes for the first time now looking down at her now uncovered hand. "I'm sorry too; I'm sorry I didn't come to you and tell you what was happening. I…I suppose I was in so much shock—but that's no excuse—"

"We're all in shock," he sadly whispered. "We're all feeling upset…and angry…and…and powerless. And it makes us behave irrationally and say things that we don't mean."

She looked up at him and nibbled her bottom lip. "Perhaps," she whispered. "Or…perhaps it's in those moments, when the walls we put up around ourselves at their most vulnerable, that we tell the truth."

She removed her hand then, and despite the hot summer weather, Branson's hand felt a sudden chill wash over it. There was wisdom in her words, to be sure; wisdom and…perhaps some heartbreak. He swallowed the lump in his throat and without another word, turned around and restarted the car, once again returning on the intended journey.

They traveled in silence, and Branson wasn't sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing. In some ways, a great deal had been said, but in others, so many words and emotions remained unsaid. Still…there was now the knowledge that she was considering his proposal, that it was no longer just an impossible dream; at least not yet.

When they reached the hospital, Sybil let herself out. In all honesty, Branson wasn't sure if things were better now between the two of them, or not. She took a few steps away from the car, and he sighed, before beginning to release the break lever. However, she stopped, turned, and then quickly rushed back to the car, grasping the door behind which he sat. "Edith told me that she and Granny are going to bring William back to Downton; that they don't care what Dr. Clarkson says, he's coming back."

He smiled at this, although he could tell by the tears he saw shimmering in her eyes that the rest of the news wasn't good. William was coming back…coming back to die. His jaw clenched at this but he swallowed the sadness and nodded his head. "Thank you for telling me," he whispered, wishing he could take her hand once more, but with so many hospital workers coming in and out, he knew it wasn't a good idea. Besides, for all he knew, Lady Mary was standing at some window and watching this exchange.

Sybil nodded her head. "You deserve to know; William is our friend, and I'm sorry I didn't tell you till now."

"It's alright," he murmured, putting on a smile for her, but despite the sad news, his heart did warm at her words. _Our_ friend.

"I don't know when I'll be leaving—"

"Lady Mary told me she would ring for the motor when she was ready."

"Good…" Sybil murmured, nodding her head as she took this information in. "I pray that you are there to greet William when he arrives," she looked up at him and put on her own smile, despite the sadness reflected in her eyes. "When you see him, tell him I'm thinking of him and praying for him?"

He nodded his head. "Aye, I'll do that. And…I pray the same for Mr. Matthew."

She smiled and whispered her thanks, before reluctantly turning away from the car to go inside. He watched her go, admiring the way she stood straight and tall, her head held high, ever the image of the professional nurse. But she paused once again, her shoulders slumping slightly, and she turned to look at him, nibbling her lip in that adorable way he found. "Are you…are you sure you don't want a compress…?"

He stared at her for a moment, and then burst out laughing. "No, no, I'm quite fine, milady, truly."

She smiled back, and yes, even a small giggle escaped her own lips. "Well…if you insist," she muttered. He thought she would go inside then…but a determined look suddenly lit up her lovely face, and he sat frozen in place and time…as she rushed back to the car, and without warning…gave a sweet pecking kiss to the cheek she had slapped.

She was gone then. She had kissed his cheek, held his eyes for a blink of a moment, and then turned on her heel and rushed inside, out of sight.

Still…the damage had been done. His cheek, which had reddened from her slap, seemed to only become hotter, and the skin tingled to where her lips had touched.

He didn't sit there like a statue, he quickly shifted gears and began to drive away from the hospital it a rather fast pace, certainly pushing the boundaries of speed for both the car and the village. However, if someone had seen him as he drove past, they would have seen him smiling, and that despite the most recent, tragic news that had fallen upon the roof of Downton Abbey, they would have seen hope radiating from the chauffeur's face…just as they would no doubt have seen a rather bright, pink cheek.


	101. 1918: A Letter to Susan

_Just wanted to get this posted before I take a little "hiatus"; it's much shorter compared to the previous chapter (but then I find the letters are easier to write in a shorter period of time). ANYWAY, I just wanted to inform folks that because Halloween is coming up within a week, **between Oct. 24 - Oct. 31**, I will be *exclusively* dedicating my time to writing/posting more chapters to my "other" fic, Downton Abbey & Zombies. But a new update to Love's Journey will be coming soon after the 31st, so hang tight! And if it helps, I will be posting a "Question/Survey" onto Love's Continuing Journey to get an idea for future chapters to that fic, so be on the look out for that! THANK YOU AGAIN for all the wonderful and lovely comments! I'm *very* glad to hear that so many readers enjoyed that last chapter, and I hope you continue to enjoy this (even if Sybil's not slapping Branson's face before kissing his cheek) ;o)_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and One<strong>

Dear Susan,

How are you? It's been so long since we exchanged letters, well over a month I think. When last we wrote, you were telling me about how James and your father were going to go into business together; a ship designing business? I know you may find this hard to believe, but I am very interested in learning more! Truly, because I know from what you have told me that James has always wanted to be a part of something where he could build and design ships, but also because I am curious as to how…one goes about, starting a business. I love being a nurse, truly, but…sometimes I just have these ideas about what I would do if I could choose any path for my life…and after reading that letter, I have actually sat and thought about what I would do, if I could open/start my own business.

As I said before, how are you Susan? How is life in Liverpool? How are things at the hospital where you work? Have you also experienced a great "surge" in patients as we have here, at Downton? Both our hospital and the Convalescent Home have recently become "overrun" with a great influx of patients and recovering officers. I have heard several people say this is a sign that the war is coming to an end; Lord, I hope so.

Oh Susan…I confess, that one of the reasons I am writing to you is…well, because I am seeking some comfort, not only from a dear friend, but also from a fellow nurse.

My cousin, Capt. Matthew Crawley (who is also Papa's heir) was badly injured sometime during the Battle of Amiens. We learned this by telegram just a few days ago. He was in London, but transferred to the hospital here in Downton just today, actually.

…It's very bad. He was unconscious when he arrived (no doubt because of the morphine)—I can't imagine the pain he had to endure to travel from France to London and then all the way up here. He barely opened his eyes while I was there. I have already spoken to both heads of the hospital and Convalescent Home, asking that for the remainder of this week, to switch all my shifts to the hospital, so that I can be there to assist my cousin as he begins his recovery. Although, in some ways, it seems such a moot point; meaning that my sister, Mary, has also made the request to stay and help at the hospital until my cousin is on his feet again.

Oh Susan…do you remember all those stories I used to tell you about my sister and cousin? It was so frustrating, watching the two of them allow their stubbornness to keep them apart, when it was so clear to…well, to anyone who can see, how much they care for one another. How much they…love one another. Perhaps even…_still_, love one another. Oh I don't know; it's all so complicated now, because my cousin is engaged to another, and my sister may very well be on the way to becoming engaged, and…I just don't know, it's all so confusing.

But Mary…oh Susan, you should have seen her today. So often people assume that Mary is cold and unfeeling; she's cautious, actually, and always has been. My mother would say she is "the most English of her daughters"; she certainly is the closest in manner to my grandmother! But of course, I know my sister; I have seen her when her defenses are down. As I said, she's merely cautious and keeps her heart guarded. But she is one of the bravest people I know, as well as one of the most loyal. As you have guessed, she was at the hospital today, ready to meet my cousin when he arrived. Mary has helped here and there at the Convalescent Home, but by no means has she been exposed to the…well, to the brutality of a hospital infirmary. But I know she is stronger than she appears, and when she sets her mind to something, no amount of negotiating will convince her otherwise. So despite Dr. Clarkson's protests that perhaps she should wait elsewhere while they brought my cousin in, she insisted that not only she stay, but that she help as well. More or less, she volunteered to be my cousin's own, personal nurse.

Oh Susan, I was…I was so proud of her. Forgive me, I…I didn't cry then, but I can feel my emotions getting the better of me now…

…

…

When they brought Matthew in, I couldn't help but gasp upon looking at him. My cousin is a handsome man, but…his poor face was scratched and bruised and swollen…there were still remnants of dry blood on his clothes and body. I warned Mary that it could be gruesome, that I would have to wash him and as you know, that sometimes meaning having to cut the clothes off the body if need be, but if she was disgusted or horrified, she didn't show it. She merely nodded her head and asked me to just direct her on what to do.

…

I…I can't deny, I…I was just in utter amazement! I still am! Oh dear, I'm probably not doing my sister any justice, talking about her like this, but…never, Susan, never have I been more proud to call her _my sister_.

We…we haven't been at our best this year, Mary and I. There have sadly been many occasions where we have raised our voices at one another, said things that are…cruel and unkind…and…well, have not behaved as two sisters who love each other, should. I confess…I once thought her so…so shallow, for basing her decision on a possible marriage simply because the man in question is quite rich. But after seeing her today, seeing the care and concern she had for Matthew, seeing her willingness to do whatever was asked, I…I can't remember how I once ever thought that about her? _This_ is who my sister is, not that façade she puts on for "society". Oh Susan, the things we do for "society"—the things we do because the world "expects us" to act and behave a certain way. I mean…you and James, you love each other—and when complications began to arise, threatening your wishes on how you wished to be married, the two of you took your lives into your own hands and ran off to Gretna Green! Because it's YOUR life! Elopement is "simply not done" as far as the so-called "polite world" is concerned (which in truth, as I'm sure you know, is _far_ from polite!) but bully for you both on doing what YOU wanted to do! Oh Susan…I wish I had your courage. I _envy_ you your courage!

…But I'm digressing.

As I told you, it's very bad, my cousin's injury. I don't know a great deal, but…I do know it has something to do with his spine (at least that's what his medical tag said). Oh dear…I have seen many spinal injuries, and as I'm sure you know, so many of them never fully recover. I…I pray to God that is not my cousin's case, but…

…

…

Oh Susan, it's so unfair. Oh God, forgive me, I…I know, I shouldn't be saying that to you, but…

…

…

…

There's more, actually. My cousin…he…he had a servant with him—William. William is actually a former footman from our house; Papa hoped that if William was assigned to serve with my cousin he would be looked after and kept out of harm's way. Such a silly thing to hope for, in the midst of war. He…he was injured too, trying to save Matthew's life! And…oh Susan…it is looking very grim for poor William…

…

I…I know I'm by no means a "seasoned nurse"; certainly nothing compared to Nurse Templeton. But…I'm starting to realize that no matter how many years one serves in this field…it never ever really gets easier, does it? You know what I mean; I'm not talking about the grotesqueness of the surgeon's table or anything like that, but…I don't think it's possible to steel one's heart, to keep from feeling the pain of losing a patient…or knowing that you will lose one. And of course it's ten times worse when you know the patient. William…I mean, he and I weren't as close as I am with my friend Gwen or…or Branson…but he was always so polite, so positive; when we attended Gwen's wedding and I sprained my ankle, William sat at the table with me to keep me company for a little while, and told me a few jokes he had learned when he was younger. I will always remember that about him; nothing could keep him down, nothing—

…

Oh God, I…I'm already talking about him as if he…as if he were…

…

…

…

Oh forgive me Susan…and forgive the runny ink on this letter. I didn't mean to do that, or to depress you with my ramblings. My friend…William…he was brought back to Downton today, to the Convalescent Home, where he will rest. It does indeed seem like I'm not the only nurse in the family; while Mary cares for Matthew, my sister Edith promised to care for William. I…I wanted to see him when I returned home from my shift at the hospital, but Edith told me he was sleeping, and I certainly didn't want to disturb him. My friend Branson saw him, though; yes, _that_ Branson. I went to the garage and asked him more about William, but just as Matthew was barely conscious this afternoon, the same was true about William.

Oh Susan, this war has to end! It has claimed far too much already. The only positive thing I can say about it is that it has forced me to look at the world differently, and to truly see what's important and worth putting value on. While I desperately want the War to end, at the same time…I know I could never go back to that life I had prior to it. Never.

I best send this before I let my emotions get the better of me and thus wash away all the ink with my tears! Oh Susan, please write to me soon. Tell me about James and the life that the two of you are building together. Yes, I would very much like to hear about that.

In dearest friendship,

—Sybil


	102. A Fifth Letter to Nowhere

_Hello! I'm BACK! Sorry about the wait; as I mentioned in my last chapter, I was dedicating the week leading up to Halloween to Downton Abbey & Zombies. I also posted a special one-shot just for the holiday, called Jack-O-Lanterns, so if you're still looking for something in the Halloween spirit (or if you want to read Branson Family fluff) then give it a read!_

_This chapter was emotional, I can't deny; the next few chapters are going to be dealing with some heavy stuff, as we build up to the sad scene of William's death. It made sense though for Tom to turn to *this* particular person, when facing this sad reality. THANK YOU ALL for your lovely comments and readership and especially for your patience during my "Love's Journey" absence! I hope you enjoy this chapter; I'm going to try and whip up another and have it posted late Friday night/early Saturday morning. Please share your thoughts! THANKS!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Two<strong>

Dear Martin,

I…I'm not really sure where to begin…

…

…

This may seem strange—no, it _is_ strange, but…I couldn't think of anyone else to write to. These thoughts, these feelings…they just didn't seem appropriate for my journal alone, and…I just needed to talk to you, and…this seems like the best way I know how.

…

William…my friend, my colleague…

He was wounded, while fighting in France, and…and…

…

…

He's come back here, to Downton to…

…

…to die.

…

…

…

At least that's what Lady Edith told me. I was there, when I saw the hospital vehicle pull up to the house. I watched from the garage while I saw some men climb out and then go around the back…and carry a stretcher, bearing poor William. God…I mean, I could barely see him from where I stood, but…he looked so…_young_. So much younger than he actually is, like…like a small boy.

…

I rushed inside then. As soon as I entered the Servant's Hall, I practically leapt onto Daisy who was busy carrying something out of the kitchens and told her William had arrived. Mrs. Patmore overheard me and gave a shriek and the entire kitchen was in chaos, earning me a right scowl from Mrs. Hughes. I practically took the tray Daisy was carrying out of her hands, thrust it into the unsuspecting arms of another kitchen maid, and more or less began to drag her by the wrist out of the Servant's Hall.

She told me to stop.

We froze there, on the steps going upstairs, and I swear…she looked like a frightened rabbit.

She tugged her hand free from my grasp and began to shake her head, muttering something about how it was too soon; she couldn't go up there, not just yet.

…

…

Martin, I…I like Daisy, I do, but…I swear, there are times…

…

Perhaps I can understand where Mrs. Patmore is coming from? She's a sweet girl, Daisy, but…where was the rebel I saw a few nights ago? Standing up to Mr. Carson and demanding from his Lordship what had become of William? Where was that girl who stood tall amongst those giants? I mean, one minute I find myself nodding my head in agreement with Gwen, thinking I was wrong to misjudge Daisy, that she _does_ love William, and the next I find myself scratching my head in confusion, and…and then I begin to doubt myself, or rather, doubt _my _beliefs on Sybil's feelings and…

…

…

I'm sorry, I…I wandered off topic there.

The point is…Daisy wouldn't come. Or, as she told me, _not yet._ She needed time to prepare herself, and…well, really what more could be said? She turned and went back to the kitchens, leaving me standing there at the base of the steps, with only Mrs. Hughes watching. No doubt she had come out to scold me for dragging Daisy away, let alone daring to go upstairs—but she gave me a sympathetic look, and muttered "be quick about it", and I didn't look back.

I went upstairs, mindful of the officers there, and…well, saw them bearing the stretcher towards the main staircase…and got a much better glimpse of him there.

Pale, Martin, he looked so pale. And there were these…hideous, purple and red bruises all over his face…

Coming up just behind him was William's father, and behind him, the Dowager Countess and Lady Edith. I have no idea how long I was staring, but…well, it was apparently long enough to catch Mr. Carson's harsh glare, because he was on me in a second, demanding to know what I was doing.

Thank God for Lady Edith. She saw me and told me she needed some help with carrying something, so I gave Mr. Carson a polite bow of my head and immediately went to her aid, fetching a large basket of supplies that had been set aside for her by one of the nurses. She told me then that she intends to be William's personal nurse while he stays here. And…and that was when I learned that…

…That it doesn't look good for him.

…

…

God above, it sounds so cold, saying it like that. So wretched and unfeeling. But…that was what the doctors in Leeds told them, that William has come back so that he may…die in peace.

I…I can't deny Martin, it makes me wonder, again, for what seems like the millionth time…did you have peace? It's a stupid question, I know; you were shot in the street—I can only pray that you felt little to no pain. But…are you at peace? Now, at least? Do you know peace? I…I like to imagine that even though these letters will never be posted, that you are aware of them, that in a way, you do read them, and I confess, I even sometimes…feel you with me. So…are you at peace?

…

They took William to a very fine room, one with a view that faces the fountains and pond at the back of the house. I set Lady Edith's things down on a small desk, while they brought him in…and began the task of removing him from the stretcher to the bed. A part of me wanted to stay and…and help further, but I knew it wasn't my place, and so…I turned and left, before being asked to leave.

He was asleep. Maybe it is possible for him to have peace, because…I confess, despite those scratches and bruises, he did look peaceful…like he was having a fine dream. As I exited the room…I saw at the end of the hall a figure, standing and watching. Can you guess who it was, Martin? I must admit, it did make me smile, seeing Daisy there. Of course, as soon as she caught my eye, she turned and went the other way. Ah, Daisy. I just…I hope when he's awake, she'll visit him. He'd like that, I know.

…

…

I…I know I never really talked that much about my friends here, with you. I've mentioned a few names in the past, but…never really gave any details. William—he's a good lad. He once served as footman here. A little naïve, perhaps, but he has a good heart. He always tried to make others smile, and he's probably one of the most positive and idealistic people I know. I admit, I thought his views on the War were foolish; I remember rolling my eyes at the way he would sulk back when it started, because he and his father were fighting over whether or not he could enlist. But…he believed in the cause; even though I feel different about the War, I…I can't help but admire that; that firm belief in something. I don't think anyone can accuse William of not being brave. Unsure of himself, perhaps, but…he certainly was no coward. And he loved the piano, Martin; sometimes he would play for us, at the end of a long day. If I were still the Servant's Hall, I would have the opportunity to listen to him play, while some of the kitchen maids giggled and twirled around the table. And…and he loved Daisy. _Loves_, Daisy. Very much. I…I don't think there's ever been another girl for him...

…

I suppose that's another thing he and I have in common. We're both in love with women who…seem unattainable.

…

Gwen…she…she has this notion that given time, Daisy will come to love William as much as William loves her. I mean, it is obvious that Daisy cares for William, and I'd like to think that Gwen is right. I suppose in a way, I need to believe she is right, because…because I desperately want to believe that Sybil can love me.

God, I know Martin, I know, I'm still going on about that, even after all these years. I keep wondering what you must think, and there are times when I want to beg for your acceptance, and times when I want to tell you to more or less take your opinions and…piss off. God forgive me, I feel awful even bringing it up now. I should be focused on William, entirely on what's happening with him, but…I can't help it, that was always something I recognized in William, that I related to, that helpless feeling of being hopelessly in love with someone…and praying day in and day out that they _just_ might love you back. Gwen believes that with time, Daisy will love William as deeply as he loves her…but…but that's the problem! William doesn't have the luxury of time! Not anymore! And…oh God, I feel absolutely wretched and helpless! I…I feel there should be _something_ I can do, something I _should_ _be doing!_ But I have no idea; I'm at an utter loss.

…

And the sad truth, Martin is…I _have_ had the luxury of time…and yet…I still find myself praying day in and day out…_please, please, PLEASE_…let me love you and cherish you and be with you for the rest of our days? That's the prayer I keep finding myself making every time I think about her…which if truth be told is, _all_ the time.

…

…

She slapped me today. Did you see that? I suppose I can't blame her, I did egg her on. I just…I felt so frustrated about so many things, and I wanted her to show me _something_, even if it was something as brutal as a slap.

…

Did you see what she did later, Martin? I confess…my cheek is still tingling, and I'm not talking about the slap anymore.

…My _first kiss_ from Sybil Crawley. _God, please don't let it be the last!_

I suppose I should let myself have hope, and believe that the gesture is a sweet sign that…that she does, at the very least, care for me. But…oh God, Martin, you know how I can be. I let my passions get the better of me, and my doubts, my self-doubt especially, can be far worse. I…I just…God forgive me, Martin; I envy William his ignorance when it comes to Daisy's affections, but at the same time, I don't want that to ever happen to me. I don't ever want to know that someone I love is watching from a distance because she can't bear the sight…

No, no, I'm being a right bastard now; Daisy is a sweet girl, I like her, I do, and I'm not doing right by her. And I keep bringing the topic back to myself and my own troubles, when I shouldn't be doing that, I should be focused on William, I mean that's why I'm writing to YOU! Did you feel loved, Martin? While you were dying, did you feel loved? Did you know you were loved? DO YOU know that you're loved? You are…and you're deeply missed. God, what I wouldn't give to go to some pub right now and get drunk with you by my side. Look at me; I'm a weeping mess—

…

…

…

That was Sybil; she stopped by, very briefly, asking about William. God, do you think she saw me crying? I pray not. It would be one thing if she thought my tears were for him, or for you. But if she knew my other reasons…well, let's just hope she doesn't.

I told her the truth. I told her he was unconscious, but…but that I did see him and that…that I will be praying for him, which is true, I will be.

She looked tired. I wonder if she did a shift here at the Convalescent Home, after returning from the hospital? She didn't stay too long…although, bless her, she did ask after my cheek. If I weren't an emotional wreck, I would have probably said something cheeky, but…well, now's not the time for such things. And while a part of me wishes I had asked her to stay longer, it's for the best, I know. Let her get her rest, and let me do the same. Let me pray for my friend, and for you. Let me deal with these emotions that are pulling every which way at my heart. Let me find hope, amongst the doubt that tries to drown me. Maybe I can summon just a bit of the courage and optimism William has?

…

…

Will you watch over him, Martin? Please? Watch over my friend, help him as…as he makes this journey. If some miracle can occur that saves his life, then please, send it his way. God knows I kept wishing that such a miracle existed for you. I still do, in a way.

…

Thank you, dear cousin. Thank you for letting a git like myself, unburden his heart to you. I miss you, Martin—I miss you and ask that you continue to watch over me…and all whom I care and love. Thank you…always.

—Tom


	103. Sybil's Diary XXV

_THANK YOU to all the lovely reviews for the last chapter! The emotion keeps running in this one, but I threw in a special moment for our characters because gosh darn it...it's needed right now!_

_ALSO, because I know there are some of you out there who tell me you get out the older episodes and watch them, trying to see where maybe some of these scenes fit into those episodes, I just wanted to give you a heads up that the next few chapters will be a *slightly* off linear from the events in S2E5; only because sometimes SO MUCH is compacted into an episode, that's really meant to be one day, and it's just too difficult to try and imagine *ALL* that action happening in a course of one or two days...so the action mentioned in these next few chapters, I decided to "spread out" a little bit. It will make more sense as you read, but I just wanted to share that really quick! ANYWAY, thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy! _

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Three<strong>

August 16, 1918

When it rains, it pours…

That was a phrase Mama once told me, to describe how when something horrid happens…it seems that _everything_ that's horrid, takes place at the same time. And no words could be truer to what is happening to my friends and family…

…

…

I woke early this morning. I wanted to get to the hospital, to see if Matthew had awakened, yet. He was barely conscious yesterday, and I didn't want him to awake surrounded by strangers. And…while it was tempting to have Branson drive me, I didn't feel it was right to wake him; no doubt he is feeling just as stressed as I am, worrying about poor William. So I rose in the early light of dawn, and walked to the hospital as the sun rose over the horizon. I do believe I surprised several nurses and physicians as I entered, remarking how my shift didn't begin for another three hours, but I didn't care. I immediately went to Matthew, who despite his bruises, looked…rather peaceful, slumbering there.

That was where Dr. Clarkson found me.

He was walking through the room and stopped short at the sight of me changing Matthew's linens. He was surprised to find me there, but I simply explained to him that I couldn't sleep and felt it was important to be present when Matthew awoke. He asked if my sister would be returning, and I said she would, at least for part of the day. I also told him that Lavinia would be coming, and Papa anticipated that she would be arriving on the afternoon train.

Poor Lavinia…

Oh God, poor Cousin Isobel! We still have no idea as to her whereabouts, or if she's even aware of what's happened to Matthew!

…

…

Poor Matthew…

…

I…Dr. Clarkson, he…he told me that…that last night, after Mary and I had left, he had done some tests…

…

…

He said he didn't want to jump to any conclusions, which was why he had telephoned for a specialist to come down from York, but…

…

Matthew may never walk again.

…

…

…

Oh God, I…I'm still shaking as I remember those words.

Dr. Clarkson didn't tell me this right away, he actually left me to finish my task of caring for Matthew…but I knew something was wrong, the way he kept coming back into the room, and walking past Matthew's bed, and pausing to look at him, and then look at me, before continuing his rounds. It wasn't until he had passed the fourth time that I rose and whispered, "What's wrong?" My heart was thudding so loudly, I'm sure he could hear it. Dr. Clarkson looked at me for a moment, and then gently took my arm and led me away, out of earshot.

…And that was when he told me about the tests he had run.

…

I…I was shocked, to say the least. I mean, I remember seeing his tag yesterday, how it mentioned something about a possible injury to his spine, but…I thought that surely, if it were as something as serious as that, then the hospitals in France and London would have said something before he was brought to Downton! I think…I think I just stared at Dr. Clarkson with wide eyes and opened mouth; I felt…numb.

…

…

Dr. Clarkson told me he felt that as a member of Matthew's family…I should know, but he also wanted to give me the information because as a nurse, I could perhaps help calm my family, as well as Matthew, when the time came to tell the rest of them. He thought they would find more comfort in someone like me, when they learned the news. I…I have been there in the past, standing beside doctors and surgeons as they tell patients that they will lose a limb or may never walk again. I have also done this when the doctor must tell the patient's family. I don't think it matters who tells the news or how you tell it; it's always going to be devastating for that person and his loved ones.

In some ways, I resented Dr. Clarkson. I resented him for telling me this, now, before Mary arrived. Or Papa, or Lavinia, or anyone else! Because I knew I would have to be that stoic face for the family; I would have to be the one they could turn to, when the news shook them and upset them. And for Matthew too. I would have to be the one to put on the "stiff upper lip" even though all I wanted to do was pick up the closest bedpan and throw it as hard as I could against a wall! I wanted to throw my fists into the air and shout to the sky, "WHY?" Because this is SO UNFAIR! Oh Lord, I'm trembling right now, I can barely keep my pen steady! IT IS UNFAIR! What's happening to Matthew and to William! Matthew may never walk again and William is spending his final days in some bed within Downton, and…and while I know it may sound selfish of me, I…I must be the one who looks strong and calm when all I want to do is the opposite! And while I am grateful for Dr. Clarkson telling me, as opposed to brushing me aside because I'm a woman or the daughter of the Earl of Grantham, at the same time I just…I wanted to shake him and shout at him for dropping this news upon me, because not only would I have to appear as the strong one for my family, but I would also have to observe all of them fussing over Matthew, and NOT SAY ANYTHING UNTIL _AFTER_ THE SPECIALIST HAD ARRIVED AND CONDUCTED HIS BLOODY TESTS!

…

…

And that was another thing. How…how…HOW DARE Dr. Clarkson jump to this conclusion, even though he had told me he didn't want to jump to any conclusions? If that's true, then why did he feel it was so important to tell me this now?

Alright, I know why…but I'm not thinking like a professional nurse right now, I'm thinking like an angry, frightened family member with an extraordinary burden—

I hate myself for thinking that. As if I'm the one carrying tremendous burdens right now, compared to Matthew or William…

…

…

Matthew still doesn't know.

…

He woke up shortly after Dr. Clarkson had told me this. And I remember looking at him, wanting to cry, wanting to tell him how sorry I was for what had happened…but I knew that I couldn't. I somehow managed to keep my tears at bay and put on my "professional nurse" face, smiling at him as he murmured my name when he was able to recognize me.

Mary arrived just a little later. She looked a little flustered, and asked why I hadn't woken her, that she was hoping to come down to the hospital with me. However, any other words were soon lost on her when she noticed that Matthew was awake, and I made my excuses to give them some privacy…before rushing outside of the hospital, just…praying so hard that he was there, that he had brought her and not Pratt.

…

The one good thing of my day.

Branson was there, and he was just beginning to turn the car around, but stopped when he saw me rushing out towards him. I can't begin to mention how…how much it warmed me to see him leap out and come towards me quickly, his face just…filled with the most wonderful, caring concern…

…

…

How tempting it was to just…throw myself into his arms and beg him to take me away. Far away from all the pain that seemed to surround this place.

…

Somehow, but some strange feat fit for Hercules, I was able to restrain myself. I didn't throw my arms around him, or rush at him to where he would have to catch me in his arms to keep himself from being knocked over, nor did I beg him to take me away, despite the words that my heart was screaming. But…he did hold out his hands to me, and I didn't hesitate in taking them. Oh Lord…how…how could I not love him? Just…the way he looked at me, the way he…tenderly…held my hands, and squeezed them…running his thumbs along my knuckles…

God, I'm beginning to weep at the memory, although these tears are different from the ones I shed earlier.

I told him what Dr. Clarkson had just told me, and then I felt awful, because I knew it couldn't be repeated to anyone, so now poor Tom would have to share the same burden that had been passed to me (perhaps even worse for him, since I doubt that the staff will be allowed to know anything further unless Papa deems it). I then began to blubber my apologies for…well, more or less for "dumping" all these frustrations upon him, and…and…

…

…

He released one of my hands. He…he actually moved his hand…to my chin…and gently tipped my face up, until I was looking into his eyes. And his hand…it moved to my cheek…and even though he was wearing his driving gloves, I…I could feel the warmth of his skin through that leather, as one of his fingers gently brushed a tear from my cheek…

…

…

…

I…I…I stood there, frozen…I mean, never…never has he…touched my cheek in…in such a way before…

…I don't think I moved; I'm not even sure I breathed! He simply whispered that…it will all be alright…and not to worry, he wouldn't tell anyone…

…

…

I know, it's the sort of thing you say to someone who's distressed, because how can Branson promise that it will all be alright? How can anyone, after hearing such news like that? And yet…I somehow found the strength to smile.

…

…

He couldn't stay, and…as much as I wished he didn't have to, I took a deep breath and took a step back, releasing his hands and freeing my cheek from his touch, once more. I know I shocked him yesterday when I slapped his cheek…and then kissed it…but…I suppose, in some ways, he turned the tables on me, by touching my cheek. Because all day, it has been tingling…even now, as I lift my own fingers to touch it…I can still feel his hand.

…

When I returned to Matthew, Mary asked me where I had gone. I can't even remember what I said, I just…made up some lie, and then made myself look busy, so I wouldn't have to answer any questions I was afraid of answering. The specialist arrived, and Papa arrived shortly after. I was at the other end of the room at that point, but…I did notice Dr. Clarkson pulling Papa and Mary aside…and…and I saw the expressions on their faces from where I stood. So he told them. He told them what he told me, that there is a real chance that Matthew may never walk again…

I…I don't know how the news affected Mary. She's so like Papa, in the sense of trying to keep a "stiff upper lip". However, I know my sister, and I could see the sadness and the pain in her eyes when I murmured my goodnights to her. Surprisingly, we didn't talk about Dr. Clarkson's news. I think we're all just in too much shock. I…I honestly don't know if Papa has told anyone else; Edith has been upstairs with William all day, and who knows about Granny. I'm sure he'll tell Mama, but…when the time comes and they need me to stand there and look stoic and hard-hearted, then so be it, I will. But thank God I didn't have to do it yet.

But the hardest part will be telling Matthew. I…I can't even begin to imagine what that will be like. Or telling Lavinia; she arrived with Papa this afternoon, and even though she wept, she tried to put on a smile for Matthew and knelt by his beside, brushing any fallen hair from his face. It was lovely sight, I can't deny…but how I wanted to go to Mary's side when that happened, and take her hand in mine and comfort her, just as Branson had comforted me when I was in distress. Although I know Mary will never admit to that.

…

…

One thing…one thing that I have been wondering, but I didn't dare bring it up to Mary or Papa or to anyone, is…how will this injury affect Matthew in…in other areas?

Alright, I know how that must sound, but this is a question both I and doctors have been asked dozens of times by patients who suffer spinal injuries. Suddenly, the idea of not being able to walk is much easier to bear than the idea of not being able to…to…

…

Oh for heaven's sake, you're a professional nurse! And this is your diary, you silly girl!

I should ask Dr. Clarkson that question tomorrow, even though I can only imagine how he will react when he hears me say it (while he may try and think of me and look at me as a professional nurse, I will always be little Lady Sybil in his eyes, the youngest child of Lord and Lady Grantham who he helped bring into the world, and therefore he shouldn't discuss such things with). I'm rolling my eyes at the thought. But I should ask him and I should know the truth, just…just in case poor Matthew asks, when the time comes.

…

…

How I wish to hear some good news. How I…I yearn for something good to happen. Some miraculous cure, and not just for Matthew but for poor William too. I should go and talk to Edith tomorrow at some point, find out how William is faring. Mr. Mason, bless him, has been here the whole time. And Granny also makes frequent visits, too. I wonder how Daisy is taking all this? I remember both Branson and Gwen telling me how William is sweet on Daisy, and I do remember how Daisy asked Papa the night we received Matthew's telegram, if there was any news on William. She must care for him very much…perhaps even love him…

…

…

I should put my pen down. I keep hoping that my writing will somehow lift my heart, but it's having little effect, it seems. The only comfort I can find is the memory of a pair of gloved fingers, tenderly holding mine…while comforting hand touched my cheek and brushed a tear away. That's the only good I can see in this world; _he's_ the only good I know, the only patch of dry earth and the only ray of sunshine in the midst of this horrible, emotional, and tragic tempest that has fallen upon Downton Abbey.


	104. Branson's Journal XII

_And the emotions they keep on coming. First off, THANKS so much for the lovely reviews from the last chapter-I'm glad people liked that little bit of hand-holding and cheek touching. Let's be honest, this couple were touchy-feely *long* before they were married (in my opinion) :oP Second, a *surprise* is coming your way; this chapter will begin to build to that surprise...it's something I have been wrestling with for a while with this story, and I finally decided it has to be *this* way because gosh darn it, these two are on the edge! And what am I talking about? Well...you'll just have to wait and see ;o) but I promise, I think you'll like it. Anyway, I am feeling inspired to get to *that* point, so hopefully I can get several chapters up this week! _

_Thank you, as always, for reading! And if you can leave a comment, it really helps spur on my motivation and inspiration!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Four<strong>

August 16, 1918

Good God, what an emotional draining, exhausting day.

Normally I write these entries when it's quite late, but tonight…it's not even half-past eleven, and I'm already contemplating just quitting now and going to bed. I have a feeling once my head hits that pillow, I will be out like a snuffed candle. Of course who knows what dreams will greet me this night? Will they be the pleasant sort, where I find Sybil on the banks of a wooded pond, dipping her toes in the water and beckoning me to sit by her and hold her hand? Or will they be of a _different_ sort…where Sybil rises from where she's sitting, and without warning, removes her dress and dives into the water, leaving me wide-eyed and spellbound, before beckoning me to join her…?

…

…

Doesn't matter; both kinds leave me frustrated when I wake up.

Of course, I would welcome either such dream, as opposed to the nightmares I've endured the last few nights, replaying poor William's plight over and over in my head.

…

That plight continues, in a manner of speaking.

The kitchen maids in the Servant's Hall were rife with gossip. I usually don't pay it any heed, but a few words popped out to me that I found myself trying to listen amongst their whispers. The words that caught my attention were "Daisy", "William", and "Marriage".

While I know some of the kitchen maids can be a bit…"flighty" (Gwen's word, not mine), they're not as "daft as dry paint" (once again, Gwen's phrase, not mine). So I know that all of the kitchen maids are aware of Daisy's engagement to William; therefore they understand that the natural progression of an engagement is to marry. At some point…

But…the way they were whispering did make it sound as if…as if they thought William and Daisy were going to be married…_soon?_

This subject has been a bit of a…painful one…for me to endure. I've written about it countless times in my journal and various "letters" to Martin, about how I sympathize with William for falling in love with a girl who may not love him, or at least him as deeply as he love her—a sentiment that I found myself relating to, as my doubts tried to get the best of me when it comes to Sybil and her feelings (_still_ try to get the best of me, if I'm honest). But then I catch glimpses of what I can only assume Gwen is certain of; glimpses of Daisy's deep caring affection for William—and then I find myself wondering and thinking that yes, if given the right amount of time, maybe Daisy will realize she's in love with William…of course, time is not on their side right now. But I was more confused than ever before upon hearing these whispered rumors, and so I went straight to the source…or rather, the best source I could think of.

Mrs. Patmore was in the store cupboard, and I just so "happened" to be passing. I saw the perfect opportunity, when I watched her looking up at a high shelf, wanting to get what looked like a small crate of several tin cans, and so offered my services. As I rolled up my sleeves, I muttered something about how "chatty" the maids were today—much more so than usual, and then asked if she had heard anything about William, wondering how he was fairing today.

I need to remember that when I need a secret to be kept, Mrs. Patmore is the last person I should go to.

She threw her arms up into the air and groaned about how poor William keeps asking for Daisy, and she has to practically twist Daisy's arm to go up and spend some time with him. Mrs. Patmore went on to talk about how if she had known how much "trouble" Daisy was going to be on this matter, she would never have encouraged her to let William believe that he and Daisy were sweethearts, let alone accept his proposal.

…I kept my thoughts to myself.

As I was lifting the heavy crate from the shelf, Mrs. Patmore—who I think relishes the opportunity to gossip with someone who doesn't know what's happening all the time in the kitchens—told me how she was more than willing to grant Daisy permission to stay upstairs with William for most of the day; but after she learned what William had asked Daisy, she knew that it would take nothing short of a biblical miracle, to get the girl back upstairs for even a few minutes.

And that's when I learned the truth behind the gossip; William wants Daisy to marry him _now_.

I nearly dropped the crate I was carrying, but managed to get myself righted before any tins fell.

I find myself wondering…is William aware? About…what the doctors are saying and what Lady Edith told me the other day? Is William aware that he…is dying?

…

…

He would want to do something like that, knowing him. He would want to marry her, and I know perfectly well why. He'd want her to be provided for, to receive a widow's pension, and…and spend his last days and hours on this earth with the happy knowledge that he is married to the woman he loves…

…

…

…

Maybe I'm not as tired as I thought? I couldn't sit still and had to get up and pace the floor of my cottage. I'm tempted to take a walk around the grounds, just…some way to clear my head. Who knows, I may still do that. Of course, I know that if I do, my feet will take me _there_, to _that_ spot, beneath the willow tree, and I'll find myself gazing up at her window, for…am I exaggerating if I say the millionth time? I don't think so. And in all honesty, I don't think going there will do anything to calm my heart or my emotions. Because…because I keep wondering if…if we'll ever be married. I know, I know, she told me that she's thinking about it, that she is giving it some serious thought, and I do understand that this is a huge step for her, and a very great price, but…all those "reasonable" and "sensible" thoughts seem to fly away when I think about how William is lying up there, on some posh bed—his deathbed—and all he wants his for the woman he loves to be by his side and place a ring on her finger…even if it's only for a little while. And I find myself wondering, if our positions were reversed, and I was the man lying on that bed…would I want the same thing?

…

It sounds like a foolish question, but it's not. I love Sybil…more…more than anything. That's _not_ an exaggeration, because I made my vow; I'm here, _still_…because of her. But...I find myself wondering. Wondering not only if William is aware of…of what is going to happen to him…but if he's also aware of how Daisy feels?

I mean…I mean it's a generous and caring offer; marry him and she'll be provided for. But…at the same time, it's a comfort that he longs to have…to hold her hand and call her his wife. Would I want the same thing? Even if I wasn't as sure as I try to tell myself about Sybil's feelings and affections, would I want the same thing?

…

…

…Of course I would. Even in the greatest doubt, I would.

…

…

Mrs. Patmore didn't say whether or not Daisy accepted. If she had, I think she would be overjoyed, or at the very least, fussing over Daisy, rather than standing in a store cupboard and unleashing her frustrations while I carried a crate of tin cans for her.

I don't know what will happen. I don't know if I should do anything about it, either. I don't think Daisy would listen to me; I think she's the only one who can convince herself on what would be the right thing to do. As for William…perhaps tomorrow I can go and see him? Lady Mary will be going to London in the morning, but other than driving her to the station, I don't believe there's anywhere else I'm needed…so perhaps I can find a moment to go upstairs and speak with him? I don't think Mr. Carson would deny me that, not with how things are at the moment.

…

Things aren't looking good for Mr. Matthew either. Sybil told me that he may not be able to walk, ever again. I learned this when I took Lady Mary to the hospital this morning—Sybil had already left well before the rest of the house was awake. I wish she had come and woken me; I would have happily taken her, no matter the early hour. But she did come out and find me just before I left the hospital. I won't forget the sight; her running out the door, looking desperate and frantic, and my heart lurched at the sight. I had just barely pulled the parking break, before leaping out of the car to find out what had happened. And that was when she told me. And…the pain I could in her eyes, the anger, the fear, the frustration…God, how I wanted to hold her. How I wanted to take her in my arms and never let her go. It was so tempting, so very tempting…

But I didn't. Instead, I offered her my hands, hoping she would understand the gesture, and thank the good Lord, she did. She took my hands and I squeezed them tenderly, praying that my action could provide her with just a little comfort. I was even so bold as to touch her face and wipe away a tear I saw on her cheek...

…

…

Maybe she does care? Maybe my doubts are just trying to get the better of me. I have to remind myself everything that she had said to me the other day, that she _is_ considering my proposal, that she _is_ giving it some serious thought.

…

…

On a completely unrelated note, I met a woman who has come to Downton to apply for Ethel's old job. Her name is Jane. I was just bringing the car back to the house after leaving the hospital, when I saw her wandering around the house, looking confused. She was trying to find the servant's entrance, and I guided her to the appropriate door. She thanked me, and then quickly introduced herself and explained why she was there. It was a brief encounter, but she seems pleasant. I can only hope that she's got a wiser head on her shoulders than Ethel, and won't repeat the same mistakes Ethel made with one of those "randy officers". Poor Ethel…I do sometimes wonder what's become of her. I still haven't asked Anna if she knows anything…perhaps tomorrow at breakfast.

Right…well, that exhausted feeling I had earlier is gone, completely. I can hardly sit still right now. I have no doubt that once I finish this entry, I will find myself walking the grounds…and my feet will lead to their natural resting place under that willow tree.

I sometimes wonder what Sybil would think, if she learned that I did that every so often? Would she find it romantic? Or revolting? I'm not sure how I view it, myself.


	105. Seeing Red

_Ok, so this may seem like a weird chapter, simply because while I do try to follow canon for the most part when it comes to the events of series 1 & 2, I just REALLY wanted to punch Major Bryant for bastardly bastardness, and who better to do that than our own dear Tom Branson? So, while it may seem a *bit* out of place, in the realm of series 2 canon, I hope you can envision it like so many other moments in this story, where this was happening "behind the scenes" on the show :o)_

_I hope you enjoy! This was a fun one to write ;o) THANKS FOR READING AND COMMENTING AS ALWAYS!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Five<strong>

Branson was seeing red.

Like a bull, being bated by a matador. And all he wanted to do was charge at his opponent, and skewer him through.

The "matador" in question was none other than Major Bryant, the scoundrel whom Branson was convinced had something to do with Ethel's sudden dismissal. That morning, while they were having breakfast in the Servant's Hall, Mr. Carson approached him and told him that an officer would be arriving on the mid-morning train, and he would need to go and bring him to the house.

He was confused by this piece of news. He had never had to drive officers to and from the house before. Even Mr. Carson didn't seem entirely comfortable with the thought. Yet the request had been made, and so at ten o'clock, he found himself sitting in the car, parked at the train station, waiting for the mid-morning train to arrive.

The name Mr. Carson had given him sounded very familiar, but Branson couldn't quite put his finger on it. However…as the first class doors opened, he felt as if someone had run up and punched him in the stomach…as he watched Major Charles Bryant step onto the platform, and slowly make his way towards him.

_ That slimy git!_

He had forgotten the man's name—the man wasn't worth remembering, anyway. But he remembered how the man had muttered several offensive slurs to him, when Branson wouldn't let him go "joy riding" in the Renault. He also remembered how the major had tried to "threaten him" with the sort of bullying act Branson had seen back when he was a boy at school. But he wasn't a child anymore, and knew how to handle himself when it came to a fight. He wondered if Major Bryant remembered him? Did he remember how he had flinched when Branson bluffed a punch? Why was he here? What had brought the arse back to Downton?

"Ah, good. Glad you're on time," the major murmured, not even bothering to look Branson in the eye. If he had recognized him, he didn't act like it. Branson watched with narrowed eyes as the officer climbed into the car, not even waiting for someone to open the door for him (which was just as well, since Branson had no intention of doing so), and settled himself into the backseat.

Just get him to the house and keep your mouth shut, he kept repeating over and over. He didn't need to have a conversation with the man, nor did he want to. But while he wanted nothing more than throw the man out of his car, he knew that he couldn't risk being sacked—not now, when he was so close to possibly winning Sybil's hand (God willing).

So with gritted teeth and a clenched jaw, he turned the car away from the station and drove back to the house. He doubted he had ever driven to the house from the station so quickly. But he was desperate to get the louse out of the Renault before he gave into the temptation to drive it into a tree.

As soon as he reached the house, Major Bryant once again didn't bother to wait for him to open the door (which was good) and simply proceeded to let himself out and waltz right into the house as if he owned it. Branson had to take a few calming breaths, before he resumed driving the car once again, and returning it to the garage.

It would probably have been for the best that he avoid other people at the moment—it wouldn't be fair to snap their heads off just because he was angry at this other person. Yet he felt an urge to find Anna and see if she could tell him anything she knew about Ethel; he had been about to ask her those questions this morning at breakfast, before Mr. Carson told him to go to the station. He marched into the Servant's Hall and threw his driving gloves down on the table with such a force, that O'Brien practically jumped from where she sat.

"Oi, what's the matter with you?" she muttered looking up at him from her tea cup. He didn't respond, just gave her a glare, to which she lifted her brows, but then resumed sipping her tea and going back to the task of mending whatever article of her Ladyship's clothing she was mending.

"Something the matter, Mr. Branson?" Mrs. Hughes asked, upon entering the room and seeing the tension between him and Miss O'Brien.

He ignored her question and immediately asked his own. "Where is Anna, Mrs. Hughes?"

She looked a little puzzled by his question. "I imagine she's upstairs going about her work. Why do you ask?"

He didn't feel he could give his reasons, especially since Mrs. Hughes was the one who dismissed Ethel. "Just had a question," he mumbled. A new tactic dawned on him then, and watched for the housekeeper's reaction as he spoke. "Major Bryant is here, now."

Mrs. Hughes lifted her eyebrows at this. "Oh?" It was brief, but Branson saw how she tensed, just slightly, when he mentioned the officer's name. It was enough of a conclusion for him to go on. _That bastard _is_ the reason for Ethel's sacking, I knew it!_ "Well…thank you, Mr. Branson for letting me know." She forced a smile, and then turned and left.

O'Brien lifted her own questioning eyebrow. "What was that all about?"

That was exactly what he wanted to know. And so despite the cold stare of the lady's maid, he broke the rules once again, and began to venture upstairs, keeping a "safe distance" from Mrs. Hughes.

Major Bryant was in the hall, laughing and talking with some other officers. They were clapping one another on the shoulders like long lost friends, and someone began passing a flask around the bunch (no doubt belonging to the so-called "upstanding" major). He kept to the shadows of the staircase, not fully venturing onto the hall floor to avoid being seen. But this was as good a hiding place as any, since Major Bryant was only 20-30 feet away, and the way he and his friends were laughing, Branson had feeling they could be heard in the next county.

Mrs. Hughes had her back to him. She was facing the major, and looked…nervous. Was she going to confront the man? Demand that he leave? He would dearly love to see her do that; Mrs. Hughes could be an indomitable force if she willed it (something all Celts seemed to have in common). Of course, unlike Major Bryant and his friends…she was trying to be discrete, about whatever it was she wanted to speak with him about…and Branson had to lean as close as possible, without being seen, to try and make out her words.

The first thing she said, he couldn't understand. But he noticed how she held out a piece of paper to him…something that looked like a letter…

Major Bryant asked who the letter was from. He seemed…reluctant, to take it.

Once again, Branson couldn't hear exactly what Mrs. Hughes was saying…but he thought he had heard the word…_child_.

Child.

CHILD!

He practically lost his balance on the staircase from leaning in so close. No…Mrs. Hughes wasn't seeking out Major Bryant to scold him for the indiscretions to which Branson was convinced he had committed with Ethel, thus causing her to lose her job. It was worse…much, _much_ worse.

Ethel had a child; _Major Bryant's_ child. And this letter that Mrs. Hughes was presenting him no doubt gave details about that child.

That was enough to cause him to clench his fists and turn his knuckles white.

But it was the words that followed that really caused Branson's blood to boil.

"Mrs. Hughes, the last thing I wish is to be rude…but in this case I really must be left to my own devices…"

Branson had known "men" like Major Bryant back in Ireland. Didn't matter what part of the class divide they resided on, they were all the same. They talked a good game, and tended to be easy on the eyes with many girls, but when it came to taking ownership of their…responsibilities…they turned tail and run in the opposite direction. And if anyone dared to call them up on it, they would claim that it _"couldn't possibly be theirs."_

Branson had warned his sisters about such bastards. And he especially warned Frank that if he ever did anything like that, he would personally thrash him until he couldn't stand, before dragging him to the girl's house and standing over him until he had apologized for his behavior and proposed marriage.

So…it would seem Major Bryant was truly living up to the title of villain in more ways than one.

"Now I must say goodbye; it's time I was making tracks."

Of course he would want to hi-tail and run. All these bastards were the same and they all followed a similar pattern. Never mind that he had been at the house for less than half an hour; he was ready to go before Mrs. Hughes tried to thrust the letter further.

It was obvious by the woman's rigid stance that Mrs. Hughes was disappointed. Both disappointed, and disgusted. Branson quickly ducked back into the shadows as Mrs. Hughes took a steady breath, before turning and walking briskly away from Major Bryant, who had gone back to his friends and was once again resuming whatever loud and lewd conversation they had been having prior to her interruption.

Major Bryant was the worst kind of man. No, he wasn't a man at all. He was a loathsome bug that needed to be stomped. He had ruined Ethel without a backwards glance, left her impoverished and with a baby to tend to, refused to acknowledge that the affair had even taken place, let alone that the child was his…and had also just now shown great disrespect to Mrs. Hughes. That was probably the straw that broke the camel's back, for Branson. While he hadn't been fond of Ethel, he hated seeing a so-called man like Major Bryant do the sort of thing that he did to her (no woman, no matter how foolish or misguided, deserved that) but to be rude to Mrs. Hughes, who he did like, and who in some ways had been like a second mother to him—that was too much.

With a set jaw, he turned and went back down the stairs to the Servant's Hall. He didn't pay O'Brien any heed as he marched through the room and out the door that led him back to the garage. He would wait for word to bring the car around; no doubt he would get to be the "fortunate" one to take Major Bryant back to the station. That was fine; this would allow him to bide his time and decide what he truly wanted to do about the situation.

…And several ideas were brewing.

* * *

><p>Despite Major Bryant's announcement that he would be "leaving", he didn't leave until after luncheon. Branson didn't find that too surprising; the man was like a leech and would take whatever he could for his own benefit.<p>

He was in the garage, polishing the Renault when the message arrived that Major Bryant was ready to be transported back to the station. He buttoned up his jacket and pulled on his hat, before bringing the car around and patiently waiting for the major to climb inside.

"Drive on," Major Bryant mumbled, not even bothering to look Branson in the eye as he climbed in. He was too busy digging a carton of cigarettes out of his pocket. Branson nodded his head, and started the car.

Silence passed, at least for a moment. It wasn't until they were away from the drive that led to the house, before Branson broke it. "Did you have a pleasant visit, sir?" He watched Major Bryant in the mirror, mainly to see the man's reaction to his question.

The major didn't even lift his head. "It was alright," he muttered, far too busy searching for his lighter than to be bothered lifting his head to answer Branson's question.

_ He doesn't remember me…_

The possibility had occurred to him, after he had driven Major Bryant from the station to the house. It wasn't too surprising; he had dealt with people like Major Bryant before, people who didn't even bother to see those "beneath them" as human beings at all. In Major Bryant's mind, he wasn't worth remembering. _But that's going to change…_

"I suppose it wasn't what you had hoped…"

Major Bryant was still struggling with finding his lighter. However, Branson's words had caught his attention slightly. "What?"

Branson bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. "Well, you only arrived this morning…"

Major Bryant was now focusing on the back of Branson's head. "Meaning what, exactly?"

Branson shrugged his shoulders. "Simply that you seem to be leaving awfully early, for having just arrived…"

Major Bryant frowned. "Not that it's any of your business," he muttered, "But I had never intended to stay for long. I just wanted to catch up with some friends of mine, before returning to the front."

Branson lifted a brow at this. So the major was returning to battle then? Interesting; the officer didn't strike him as the sort who "faced danger". Still, he decided to keep the charade going. "Oh, beggin' your pardon sir, I didn't realize you had been here before."

Major Bryant snorted at this. Branson couldn't tell if he was annoyed that he, a lowly servant, wasn't aware of his previous presence, or by the fact that the man still couldn't find his lighter.

"When were you here, if I may ask?"

Major Bryant groaned. "You weren't this chatty when you drove me to the house; can we return to that?"

Branson put on a fake smile. "Of course sir, my apologies." He counted to fifty in his head, before breaking the silence once again. "You do look familiar, now that I think about it."

"Good God," Major Bryant groaned with a roll of the eyes.

"When was it that you arrived?"

"When the Convalescent Home opened—"

"How long did you stay?"

"That's none of your—"

"Only I think you were for quite some time…"

"Look, can you just—"

"When did you leave exactly?"

"Damnation, will you—"

"Did you know a maid named Ethel?"

Silence. There was no retort from Major Bryant now.

Branson glanced at the major's reflection, then drew his eyes back to the road. "Yes…I think I remember seeing you with her…"

Major Bryant, whose mouth had been hanging open at Branson's last question, suddenly shut it, and was now glaring at the back of his head.

"She was very attentive to you, if I remember correctly…"

"Listen here; I don't know what you are—"

"She would have been delighted, no doubt, to have seen you today."

"I do not wish to—"

"Of course she couldn't, since she no longer has a job."

"That's enough!"

The car came to sudden halt, and Major Bryant practically tumbled forward.

"Aye," Branson muttered, a dark cloud falling across his face as he threw his hat off. "It _is_ enough."

Before Major Bryant could sit up, Branson had reached across the driver's seat, and grabbed the officer by the throat. A strangled gasp escaped Major Bryant, as he was helplessly pulled up to Branson's snarling face. "Tell me…how does someone like yourself climb to the rank of major and receive various awards for bravery in battle…and yet seduce a young woman, causing her to lose her position, getting her with child, and then abandon her when she is in the most need? Tell me, how does one who dares to call himself _'a man'_ do that?"

He was enraged. The red he had seen earlier began to glow. Hate was a strong word, but the truth was Branson hated men like Major Bryant, men who gave little thought to how their destructive decisions and actions could affect others. Men who had the audacity to be referred to as "gentlemen", who demanded respect from others, and yet refused to show it to anyone they deemed "unworthy".

Major Bryant was coughing at Branson's tight hold. "See…see here!" he choked. "Unhand me this…this…this instant you…you…"

"What?" Branson snarled. "Paddy? Mick? I can think of a few others if those aren't good enough," he growled.

Major Bryant was trying to scratch at Branson's hands, but the odd angle at which he was being held made it difficult, not to mention that he could barely shout due to the vice-like grip Branson had on the man's throat. "R-r-r-r-release me!" he choked out.

"All in good time," he growled. "But let's come to an agreement, shall we?"

"What?" he gasped.

Branson ignored Major Bryant's confused expression. "I'm giving you a chance; a chance to prove that you are a man. A chance to wipe your slate clean and start afresh and live up to that so-called title of 'gentleman'," he threatened. "All you have to do…is acknowledge your 'indiscretion' with Ethel, and accept the responsibility for the consequences that indiscretion brought."

Major Bryant's eyes widened at Branson's words. He tried to shake his head, but his face was only growing redder, both from the physical effort as well as, no doubt, the embarrassment for the accusation.

"Before you try to ask if I'm serious…aye, I'm _perfectly_ serious," Branson growled. "If you have an ounce of honor, something you posh gits wax poetic about all the time, then you'll do what I say."

Something sharp pricked Branson's hand. A painful hiss escaped his lips, and for a brief second, his grip on Major Bryant's throat loosened. The time, however, was enough for Major Bryant to push himself away and free himself from Branson's grip.

Branson looked down at his hand, seeing the small, bloody gash that had been caused by a small blade in Major Bryant's hand. The major was coughing and spitting everywhere, but he was also laughing too. He waved the small pocket knife as if it were a mighty sword, and then held it out, as if threatening to cut his opponent's head off.

"I'll…see…you…arrested for this!" Major Bryant spat, still trying to regain his composure after being choked.

Branson, however, was cool and met the major's threatening gaze with an icy glare of his own. "Try it. Your 'precious' reputation will be ruined if you do."

"Oh for God's sake!" the major groaned. "You honestly think anyone will take the word of some…_slut maid_, over my own?"

A growl erupted in Branson's throat, and he attempted once more to make a grab for Major Bryant, but the officer more or less swatted his hand away with the knife, slicing at his palm and drawing more blood.

Branson hissed at the new wound, but the blood only matched the red he was already seeing. The major was beginning to chuckle, thinking himself clever. If he were truly clever, he would remember that he held a pocket knife, not some lance or saber. If he were truly clever, he would have leapt out of the car and start running. Luckily for Branson…Major Bryant wasn't clever.

The major's moment of glee disappeared when Branson, despite the bloody wounds on his hands, knocked the pocket knife out of the officer's hands, and grabbed the other man by the collar of his uniform, hoisting him close once again. "Maybe you're right," he growled. "Ethel wouldn't be the first maid to suffer at the hands of a beast like you…but the evidence to your debauchery doesn't end with her, or me. I know that Mrs. Hughes is aware; I saw her hold out the letter—and she is a trusted employee of the Earl of Grantham, and a well-respected woman. She'll testify to your guilt," he threatened. "And if I were a gambling man…I'd bet it was she who quite literally 'caught you in the act'."

Once again, Major Bryant found himself struggling to free himself from Branson's grip. However, these new words did give the major pause because he knew that Branson was right about Mrs. Hughes. "Doesn't matter…" he muttered, trying to sound braver than he was. "My family's name means something! She's just a servant; she can't—"

"What about Lady Sybil?" he growled. "She's no servant. And she _will_ testify to your guilt, of that I'm sure. You think they'll refuse to hear the words of a lady? The daughter of the Earl of Grantham?"

He could see some fear in Major Bryant's eyes. But he could also see the stubbornness, and often, stubborn pride spurred people on in making stupid remarks.

"Oh please, as if she's a threat! Some whimpering miss who wants to play nurse? She's no different than that slu—"

He didn't have a chance to finish his words, because Branson's fist was already breaking his jaw.

Major Bryant quite literally flew back into the seat, blood and what looked to be several teeth, soaring into the air around him.

Branson was ready to launch himself at the bastard; ready to beat the man into a bloody pulp for daring to use that vile word again, and daring to even equate Sybil with its connotation.

However something stopped him. He wasn't sure what—a feeling, really. But whatever it was, it was probably the major's saving grace, because Branson wasn't sure he would be able to control himself once he started smashing the man's face with his fists.

Major Bryant was groaning in pain, his hand limply clutching his jaw, smearing the blood that was dripping from between his lips all over his chin.

It wasn't enough justice. The man deserved to be neutered. And yet, for the moment, Branson felt some good had been done. The threat of exposure was there. "I'll take you to the station now, _sir_," he growled, turning around and restarting the car. He wanted this bastard as far away from Downton Abbey as possible.

* * *

><p>"Good heavens!" Sybil gasped, gazing at the cuts on the palms of his hands. "What caused this?"<p>

"Sliced them in the garage," he muttered, wincing a little as she began to dab at the cuts with some ointment.

After his "discussion" with Major Bryant (and after breaking the man's jaw) Branson drove the major, as he promised, to the train station. The officer remained lying and groaning on the backseat the entire way. Upon arrival, Branson leapt out, and before hauling the bastard out of the Renault, took the flask he had seen Major Bryant carry from earlier, and proceeded to pour some of its contents down the man's throat. This caused the major to howl in more pain as the alcohol burned against his bloody mouth, but it was enough to help the station master assume that the reason for the major's ugly condition, was due to drunkenness. _"I would expect more from a British officer,"_ the station master muttered to Branson, after the two of them had hoisted Major Bryant onto the train car. Time would tell if the major would try to press charges against him. However, unlike his previous protest to General Strutt, this was one where Branson felt he most certainly had done the right thing, and would gladly accept the consequences, if they arose.

He went to the hospital next, praying that the cuts weren't so deep that they would require stitches. Thankfully, Sybil was passing as he entered the building, and quickly took him to a small room just next door to where they kept their supplies, and immediately began fussing over his hands in a way that Branson couldn't deny…he found sweet and adorable.

"You're lucky," she muttered, completely engrossed in her work. "The cuts aren't very deep, so you won't be requiring stitches. But you will need to apply this salve on them for the next few days," she murmured, putting a strange smelling paste on his skin. Thankfully it didn't reek like Mrs. Patmore's homemade concoctions. "And then keep them clean—which I know is a bit of an oxymoron for someone who works in a garage, but…well, you don't want any infection, now do you?"

"No, Nurse Crawley."

She glanced up at him and gave a look, but that only made him grin further. She tried very hard not to grin herself. "I'm serious, Branson!"

"I know, I know," he swallowed the chuckle in his throat and adopted a look of serious concentration. "I promise to keep them bandaged or gloved whenever I'm working in the garage."

"Good," she said with a firm nod. She went back to her task, and Branson simply stood there, enjoying the feel of her fingers as they rubbed the paste onto his palms. "So…any news to bring from the house?"

He debated the thought for a moment, but decided to tell her. "Major Bryant visited."

Sybil paused and stared up at him. "You're joking!"

He rolled his eyes. "You think I would joke about something like _that?"_

"Ugh!" now she was rolling her eyes. "Whatever for? I thought we were rid of him!"

He couldn't help but smile at her. He did find her indignation rather…arousing.

"He was visiting friends, apparently. He'll be returning to service sometime in the near future."

She didn't make any comment, other than an annoyed grunt through her nose as she applied a thin bandage to his hands. "Well, I'm glad I didn't have to witness it, but by that same token, I'm sorry you and the others did."

Branson shrugged his shoulders. "It's over and done with. He's already on a train back to…wherever he came from."

"Thank goodness for that," Sybil muttered as she added the final touches to his bandages. "I never liked him, and I always suspected he was a man up to no good, especially with the maids," she sighed rather sadly. "I don't know for certain…but I sometimes wonder if he had a part to play in Ethel's leaving."

He avoided her eyes. It wasn't his place to reveal everything he had learned. While he trusted Sybil and believed she could keep a secret, he reminded himself again that other than Mrs. Hughes…and now himself…no one really knew the reason for Ethel's disappearance. Not even Anna.

"There, all done!"

He smiled at his newly bandaged hands. "Thank you, Nurse Crawley; I don't know what I would have done without you."

A beautiful blush colored her face, and she quickly lowered her eyes, but Branson's smile only grew as he saw a rather bashful smile spread across her own lips.

"Well…" she said, lifting her eyes and trying to look professional once again. "Just…be careful the next time your hands are in an engine, Mr. Branson."

"Aye, Nurse Crawley," he gave a small bow of his head, as well as quick grin, and then with a bit of reluctance, turned to leave.

However, he hadn't gone but a few feet when he heard Sybil call for him. "Branson!" he turned and he could see her face scrunch up as if trying to make sense of a puzzle. "_What_ exactly was it that caused those cuts?"

He bit his lip to keep from laughing, before finally speaking. "Just…a rather large...tool, milady. But don't worry; I got rid of it."


	106. Sybil's Diary XXVI

_Ok, so while I do *try* to follow canon for series' 1 & 2, including the timeline of those two series, I am going a little "non-linear" with this chapter. In Episode 5 of Series 2, A TON happens in *one* day: Mary visits Matthew before going to London to see Sir Richard, tells Matthew about his condition, Matthew talks to Lavinia and "breaks" the engagement, Sybil and Branson have the "hand on hip" moment in the garage, Mary comes home *that* night, and learns through Lavinia that Matthew has broken the engagement. AHHH! TOO MUCH HAPPENING! At least too much for me, trying to "retell" those moments from Sybil and Branson's perspective :oP Sooooooooo, yes, I do go a little "non-linear" with this chapter, where Mary tells Matthew about his condition and he has words with Lavinia, ONE DAY BEFORE Mary goes to London...and Sybil and Branson have their "moment" in the garage. Does that make sense? Are you confused? Well just enjoy! :oP And yes, if you were able to understand my kooky author's note, you may have picked up that the NEXT CHAPTER will feature that famous "hand on hip" moment ;o) but till then...I hope you enjoy this!_

_And BIG THANKYOU'S to everyone who commented on the last chapter; I'm glad you enjoyed Branson's "retribution" for woman-kind everywhere from scum like Major Bryant ;o)_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Six<strong>

August 17, 1918

Love is…cruel.

…

…

…

The more I learn about Love, the more I find myself sometimes wondering why we, human beings, bother seeking it out at all. It just…it seems to bring nothing but heartache to all those I care about.

…

…

Alright, that's not completely true. Gwen somehow managed to find happiness. And Susan…

…

And even Anna, to a point…

…

…

But…my sisters…and now Matthew and Lavinia…

…

I know it wasn't meant for my ears to hear but…I was on my rounds, returning to the room where Matthew is resting, just after bandaging Branson's hands. Lord, I have no idea what sort of tool causes that kind of cut, but I can't deny…it was a pleasant break in my day, having him there to nurse.

…

Gracious how that sounds…

…

…

_ANYWAY_…I've been worrying about what to do, meaning, how to tell Matthew—or if I should even be the one to tell Matthew about…about what's happened to him. I'm trying to be strong, trying to be the face of…hope, I suppose, for my family. Ever since we learned the news of what might happen, Papa, Mama, Edith, and yes, even Mary, have all come up to me at some point and have asked if it's definite, if Dr. Clarkson's sure that Matthew…will never walk again.

I've never felt so trapped. I wanted to tell them no, it wasn't true, he _would_ walk again. But at the same time, how could I argue with those tests that I saw the specialist conduct? I remember Nurse Templeton teaching us the importance of facing facts, of not letting our emotions cloud our professionalism. And that no matter how much we may desire to have hope in some "miracle cure", it is best to not put those hopes into the hearts of the ones who must face the tragic reality that awaits…

…

…

That bit of advice was always easier to swallow…when you didn't know the patient, personally.

When I arrived this morning, I did seek Dr. Clarkson out. However, it seemed every time I tried to speak with him, he suddenly remembered that he "needed to do something", and disappeared. So I never had the chance to find out if Matthew's spinal injury will mean more than the harsh fact that he may never walk again. The one person who knows about Matthew's condition but who hasn't bombarded me with hopeful questions is Lavinia. Naturally, she's staying with us until…well, she's staying with us for as long as needs be. I think she's clinging to that unspoken hope, and unlike my family, is avoiding my "professional opinion"; not that I blame her.

Still…I kept wondering throughout my day, should I say something to Matthew? Should I tell him what I know about his injury? What…what we all now know? I thought perhaps it would be better, coming from me than Dr. Clarkson or someone else. But I was wrong; because there was one person who could tell him far better than I ever could…

I couldn't help hearing them speak. I was tending to a patient nearby, when I overheard Matthew and Mary talking to one another. Mary continues to be a constant companion to Matthew; it's difficult for Lavinia, I know. Mary is much better at hiding her trauma behind an icy veneer. Matthew asked after William, and my heart ached at the question. _Poor, dear William._ Matthew then asked after Cousin Isobel, and once more, I felt my heart ache for him. But when he made some comment about not being able to feel his legs, I confess, I froze at the question, and then held my breath as I listened to Mary carefully tell him the truth as gently as possible, even though it was obvious she was reluctant to do so. Perhaps she too is clinging to that unspoken hope?

I felt a tear course down my cheek as I listened to them talk. And then I saw Mary rise up and leave…and it was impossible not to take notice of the silent tears that slipped down her face as she hurried out of the room, making some excuse as she went. I know that she will be traveling to London to see Sir Richard about something…

Oh Lord, how I wanted to comfort her, how I wanted to hug Mary and tell her those false hopes I wish I could offer, _that I want to offer_, that I want to _believe!_ And I wanted to comfort Matthew too, the agony on his face as I saw him digest the information…

And yet…and yet, I didn't feel I could do either of those things. I actually felt like my presence would be most unwelcome to both of them at the moment. Besides, I wasn't meant to hear those words.

…

…

That wasn't the only conversation I happened upon. Although I wish that it were…

Near the end of my shift, I was making my final rounds through the hospital, and wanted very much to see Matthew…and perhaps speak to him, too. But as I entered the room, I stopped in the doorway, as I realized Lavinia had come. She was sitting close to him, and while I couldn't quite make out their conversation…I could tell that whatever they were talking about, was bitter and full of regret and sorrow.

Lavinia suddenly rose from where she stood, looking pale and stunned, as if someone had just splashed icy water on her. She numbly moved away from Matthew, and I confess, I pressed myself against the wall to hide in the shadows, not wanting her to see me as she passed. But when she did pass, I was still able to see the tears, but unlike my sister's tears, hers were not so silent.

I still don't know Lavinia very well. We have talked a little, and I do find that I like her—but at the same time, I don't feel I can say anything to her about this, even though I wanted to offer her some comfort as well.

I don't know what Matthew said to her. And of course it wasn't my place to ask Lavinia, who chose not to come down stairs this evening. But…I have a horrible feeling it may have something do with her and Matthew's engagement. And I have a horrible feeling it may be more than just the tragic fact that he can no longer walk.

THIS is what I mean about the cruelty of Love.

Matthew is a GOOD man. He's done NOTHING wrong, and he certainly doesn't deserve to have this horrible tragedy fall upon him. But because of it, he does not think he can be a good husband…and therefore, I am afraid, has broken off his engagement to Lavinia, who truly is a very sweet girl, and who obviously adores him and I think would continue to love him despite all this.

And then…and then I find myself conflicted. Because…because I do care for Matthew and Lavinia, and yet I also care for Matthew and my sister! I am so proud of Mary, these last few days. I don't think I've ever been prouder of my sister! The way she has tended to him, the attention she has offered, and the dedication she has shown, even during the most gruesome points. How is it possible to not believe that she's still in love with him? I can see it so clearly, the love that she has for him…and yet…and yet…

A part of me feels I should be glad that Matthew has broken his engagement to Lavinia (although I don't know this for certain, but why else would she leave in tears like that? She seemed reluctant to go…) But a part of me does feel I should be happy for this outcome, because now Mary and Matthew can be together at last…

…But I feel horrible for Lavinia, and…and while I do think Matthew loves my sister, at least a little bit…I can't deny that it's obvious to me that he also cares, very deeply, for Lavinia too. And no doubt, it broke his heart to tell her to leave. And as I said, Lavinia is sweet and…oh God, no one deserves to have their heart broken in such a way! So yes, a part of me wants my sister and Matthew to realize their mistakes and declare their everlasting love and affection to one another, but the other part of me wants Matthew to fix the mistake he's made with Lavinia so that they can be happy…and then while I'm not fond of Sir Richard Carlisle, I do want Mary to be happy, and…and as horrible and as shallow as it sounds, I find myself wondering, could she be happy with Matthew as…as he is? Oh God, I hate that I even wrote that, let alone think it! Because that makes Mary sound shallow, and…and what does it say about me for even thinking it?

…

…

…

Yes, indeed, Love is most cruel. Poor Edith; she was in love with Patrick, and yet because she was second-born, the idea of the two of them marrying was never rationalized. And then her bad luck with Sir Anthony Strallen…oh Edith; she's the most romantic of us all, and yet I feel she has had her heart broken more times than anyone should feel.

But you are not alone Edith, in having to face heartbreak at Love's cruelty. I too have been a victim of Love's cruel jests; I fell in love with a man who I fear my family will never accept, that the world in which I have known all my life, will never accept, and I fear that his family and his world, will ultimately reject me, as well.

…

And yet…how is it possible? How are Gwen and Susan able to find it? How are they able to be happy? What is the secret they have discovered? Lord, I desperately wish I knew…and not just for myself, but for all the people near and dear to me.

Perhaps Anna is the one I should ask? She and Bates love each other so much…and while things are not perfect for them, they still…_somehow_, manage to persevere and have hope…

Oh Anna, I envy you. And I envy you both as well, Gwen and Susan. I even envy my parents, to a degree, and not just because all of them have, in their own way, found happiness with the ones they love…but they also have _hope_. Hope that despite whatever hardships may come, they will somehow succeed.

I don't want to be the cynical nurse I was trained to be, the one who must deny any hope for miracles; I want to believe that miracles can still happen, no matter what the experts or specialists may say. I want to believe there is _still_ hope, not just for my cousin and his ability to perhaps one day regain the strength to walk, but…but for all our broken hearts; that all of us may find strength to love the ones we love…_completely_, and without fear.


	107. Heart Murmurs

_*Yawn* It's nearly 3 in the morning in my corner of the world, but I made a promise I would get this chapter posted, so here it is! That being said, I doubt I'll proof-read it very well, so I apologize for any mistakes you find. SO HERE IT IS...the chapter where we have the famous "hand on hip" scene! This chapter is BIG, and packs a wallop in the emotion department. Lots of lead-up to future events, but I really wanted you to get a sense of what I felt was plaguing both Sybil and Tom's minds at the time, and I hope that came across here. Anyway, THANK YOU for your patience, and please continue to let me know what you think! _

_OH! And one more thing...if you like this, or any of my work...consider nominating it for the Highclere Awards? Here is the link: .com _

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Seven<strong>

It wasn't fair.

Protocol be damned!

He had just as much right to be there as anyone else! William was his _friend!_ But in Mr. Carson's eye, protocol and tradition trumped everything.

He was angry, that much was obvious. He had tried to argue the point, tried to reason with Mr. Carson, and was sorely tempted to bring it up with William and see if _he_ could change the butler's mind at the very least.

The announcement had just been made, before they all went to bed. Mr. Carson had called everyone together, and announced that Daisy and William would soon be _married_. A gasp went up from around the room, and Branson himself, looked to the kitchen maid in question. Daisy was looking down at the ground, and if truth be told, she didn't look very comfortable. He knew she was reluctant to go and speak with William—had been ever since he had arrived. Had William's wish finally gotten through to her? Had she agreed to his wish to marry him before…

…Before he died?

Some of the other kitchen maids clapped their hands and a whispered "congratulations" was murmured around the room. And yet there were hardly any smiles; certainly not the kind that you would usually see at such an announcement. But then again, everyone knew the true reason behind this news…and what it meant for one of their own.

_"Now I know this will disappoint some of you," Mr. Carson sighed, folding his hands behind his back and trying to look stoic and firm. "But because of the size of the room…and because we don't we don't want to add any further stress…I am going to limit the um…guest list…" he stammered slightly, looking a little bashful as he spoke, "…and only let indoor staff, attend." He paused and caught the hopeful eyes of some of the kitchen maids. "Upstairs, indoor staff." A dejected moan went up from that small group, but Mrs. Patmore shushed them. _

_ Mrs. Hughes went on to explain to the room that the wedding would take place as soon as Mr. Travis, the Downton vicar, was able. But Branson had blocked out the housekeeper's voice and was frowning as he replayed Mr. Carson's words over and over. _

_Upstairs indoor staff; he wasn't included._

"_Mr. Carson—I understand the reasons for the small gathering, but surely you can—"_

"_I'm sorry, Mr. Branson, but I'm afraid that's out of the question."_

_Branson stared at the butler, and felt his jaw tighten at the man's rigidness. Was he still being punished for what he had nearly done to the General last summer?_

"_I know that you are good friends with Pvt. Mason—" Branson frowned at the way Mr. Carson referred to William by his military title. It sounded so…cold, and distant. "—But if I make allowances for you, then what do I say to all the others who aren't able to attend?"_

_He truly respected Mr. Carson, he did—but did the man have to follow every rule by the book? Even in circumstances like this?_

_Bitterness was rising in his throat. "But you'll allow Mrs. Patmore to attend?"_

_Mr. Carson bristled at Branson's accusing words. "Mrs. Patmore is the Downton Cook, and third in command in the staff hierarchy; to compare yourself with her in such a way is not only insulting, but also ridiculous. Now…I suggest we put an end to the subject, before things are said that one may regret…"_

Branson was the one bristling…but he the butler was right…at least about ending the subject before he really told the man what he thought of his damned rules. He turned and left the Servant's Hall, retreating to the garage and letting the door bang behind him. He continued fuming, picking up his pen several times and attempting to write in his journal, but more often than not, he flung the thing away from him in anger. After the second time, he knew writing would be a lost cause. He considered typing an entry…or possibly a letter, perhaps to Gwen, telling her about the injustice of what was happening. But he feared in his anger, he would pound the keys so hard that he would break the machine, so instead…he walked.

Walking was the only thing that would calm his nerves at the moment. Walking…and possibly talking to Sybil.

Yes, talking to Sybil would certainly distract him from the frustration he was feeling. She would understand why he was so upset…and maybe she would ask to see how his hands were fairing, since he had come to see her that afternoon? Maybe she would take his hands in hers…cradle them in her gentle palms, while her fingers run across the bandages…

A groan escaped his lips. Yes, Sybil could be very distracting. He best be careful, otherwise he would start thinking of ways to injure himself just so he could have the excuse of her fussing over him.

His own beautiful nurse…

Yet another fantasy to be stored away for future date.

…That is, _if_ there was a future date.

_Stop it_, he admonished himself. _This isn't like last summer; she's giving it _serious_ thought, she wants to run away with you…she just needs to prepare herself._ And he needed to continue standing firm in his hopes, and giving her the space and time that she needed.

Her light was off in her room, which meant she could be asleep…or that she hadn't gone upstairs yet…or that perhaps she was on her way to the garage right now (which he dearly hoped was true, hence why his feet turned in the opposite direction, carrying him back to the garage from where he had come).

He hadn't seen her since that afternoon, when he had come to the hospital and she had bandaged his hands. He knew she liked to walk from the hospital to the house during these summer evenings when the sun didn't set until well after eight o'clock, and while he missed her, and the opportunities they had to talk in the car, he had a feeling that these walks offered her a chance to "assess" her decision about leaving with him.

Far be it from him to distract her.

And yet…he missed her; he missed hearing her voice in the backseat, laughing at something she had heard, or groaning about the ache of the day. He liked to imagine the two of them walking together, one day; perhaps from their respective work places? He imagined going to the hospital and waiting patiently while she finished her shift, and then hand in hand, they would walk back to their flat…talking about their days…perhaps stopping at a pub on the way for a bite to eat, or a chance to grumble over a pint…

_Has she ever had a pint? _He grinned at the idea of Lady Sybil Crawley, sitting across a table from him, eyeing the glass of Guinness set before her with wary eyes. He liked the idea; he would tease her a bit, and then she would glare at him, before grasping the glass and taking a large swig. Two things would either happen then—one, she would cough and gasp and groan about the taste being too bitter…or two, she would swallow the liquid in a moment of stubborn pride, her eyes never leaving his…even though he would be able to read her eyes and know she wanted to cough and gasp and groan about the taste being too bitter. He laughed at the image…and he loved it. He loved that idea, the two of them, doing things that…that…that _couples_ do!

_Just be patient, _he reminded himself. _She may not have said it, but you know in your heart…she loves you. She'll make the right decision in the end…_

At least that was his hope; his dearest, greatest hope.

She didn't come to the garage, as he had hoped. It was probably for the best, he reasoned, even though he couldn't deny he was disappointed. They were both under a great deal of emotional stress; and while she may not have been as close to William as he was, he knew that she cared for the lad, and was sad by what was happening. But he also knew that in addition to that heartache, she had to deal with the reality that Mr. Matthew would never walk again. While he himself didn't know the future Earl of Grantham very well, Mr. Matthew had always seemed like a decent man, with a good head on his shoulders and a kind heart. Branson even chuckled once, imagining the two of them becoming good friends. _Unlikely_, he thought. _The man probably doesn't even know I exist, other than to drive the Crawley's around. _Still, he wished there was something he could do…at least to help Sybil with the stress she was feeling.

The next day dawned and Branson was determined to go and see William. He still hadn't the chance to go and sit with the former footman since he had arrived, and by God, no one, not even the Dowager Countess herself, was going to prevent him further.

However, as he was walking out the door of his cottage to head into the house, he was surprised to see Sybil coming towards him, already dressed in her uniform, ready for the day ahead.

"Oh good, you're still here…" she sighed with relief. He couldn't help but grin back at her a little cheekily. _I've always been here; I vowed to wait for you for as long as it takes…_

However, any cheeky reply he was going to offer died in his throat as he saw the circles under her eyes. She clearly hadn't been sleeping, or hadn't slept well. Concern filled his being, and reached forward and took her hand without hesitation. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice low as he tried to search her face for answers.

Sybil blushed and looked down at his hand. He reluctantly released it, but didn't step away from her. "Not really…" she groaned, before lifting her eyes to meet his. "I know you're driving Mary to the station this morning, but…do you have time to take me to the hospital?"

He nodded his head, quickly throwing his jacket on and putting on his hat while she climbed into the car on her own. He hadn't even started the engine before she started to unburden herself to him.

"Matthew knows—about his condition," Sybil began. "Mary told him yesterday. I'm glad she told him, he needed to hear it from someone who cares for him, but…oh Branson, the look on his face! The agony of that knowledge! And I have no idea what to say to him when I see him this morning; no idea how to approach him, despite all my training—"

"It's different, I suppose, when you don't know the patients as well as you know Mr. Matthew," he softly murmured.

Sybil nodded her head, and he caught a glimpse of what looked like a smile. A smile that he interpreted as one of relief; that someone understood what she was feeling. He was glad he could make her smile like that.

"But there's more," she continued, and he could tell she was struggling with whether or not to share with him the details she was about to share. "Lavinia—Miss Swire, as you know, she's visiting—"

"She now knows the truth too," he finished for her.

Sybil's eyes widened at his deduction, and she mutely nodded her head.

Branson had a feeling this next part wasn't going to be positive. "And…how did Miss Swire respond?" He watched Sybil in the mirror and noticed how she nibbled her lip; clearly feeling a little conflicted about continuing. "You don't have to—"

"No, it's…" she paused and lowered her head, taking a deep breath, before lifting it again. "She was shocked, certainly, but I think she handled the news very well…but…but Matthew…"

She didn't have to say anything further. He had a feeling he knew what she was about to reveal. Matthew had broken the engagement, or was considering breaking it. And Sybil had somehow witnessed this.

_"I'll never do that to you,"_ he wanted to say. _"I will never break your heart like that. I know I've been a right bastard at times, I know I can be stubborn and foolhardy, and I probably don't deserve the consideration you're willing to offer…but I will _never_ do that, no matter how bad things get."_

God, how he wanted to say that to her...and he felt the words on the tip of his tongue…

"Do you…do you think I should say something?"

He closed his mouth and swallowed. He honestly didn't know how to answer her.

"I suppose I shouldn't," she whispered. "They…they don't know that I overheard, at least…I'm fairly certain that they don't…" she groaned and flopped back further into the seat. "I confess, I…I'm conflicted, because I like Lavinia, I do, but…"

"You believe your sister and Mr. Matthew still have feelings for one another."

It was a bold thing to say, absolutely. He still remembered that argument they had had, the day Mr. Matthew and William had been brought back, the day he had goaded her into slapping him…before sweetly kissing his cheek. While she hadn't said the exact words, she had more or less told him it was none of his business, which yes, was true…but at the same time, he couldn't help but wonder if all these various romantic entanglements that were happening around Downton, from the love triangle that seemed to exist between Mr. Matthew, Lady Mary, and Miss Swire…to the approaching marriage of William and Daisy…were adding more stress to their own emotions.

Sybil sighed and nodded her head. "Yes…" she looked down at her hands and fiddled with a piece of thread on her nurse's apron. "I don't know what I should think…I just…" she groaned and met his eyes in the mirror. "I just want everyone to be happy."

He swallowed and briefly held his breath. He wanted that too. And God help him, he prayed she was including themselves in those words.

"Did you hear about William?"

Sybil sat up in her seat. "Yes, Papa announced it last night," she smiled then and Branson felt his own mouth lift. However, that beautiful smile began to fade, and as he saw it fall, so did his own. "I'm not sure if I'll be able to attend…"

His brow furrowed. "The hospital?"

She mutely nodded her head. "I know that it all depends on when Mr. Travis will be available. Granny is going to try and arrange a meeting. And I'm trying to arrange a shift change…but because of all the shift changes I've done when Matthew arrived…" she sighed and shrugged her shoulders. "I just don't know if I can; oh but I want to be there, William is my friend too."

He knew that. "Well I hope you are able to attend; I've been forbidden."

"What?" she looked confused.

"Mr. Carson says that only 'upstairs indoor staff' can attend," he grumbled. "I understand why he's saying that; the room isn't big enough to hold all of us, and he doesn't want William to feel any more stress than necessary—"

"But you're his friend," Sybil finished. "And you should be there. I think William would want you to be there."

He smiled at that. And he also smiled at the way she just knew his mind…as he liked to think he knew hers. They arrived shortly at the hospital, and he softly inquired if she would need him to pick her up later. He wasn't too surprised when she shook her head, thanking him for the offer, but told him she would prefer the walk. "My shift ends at half-past four; I'll be home much earlier than usual."

"Well, hopefully you'll have good news to share," he murmured with a tender smile.

She blushed then and looked down at her feet. "And you as well; I think you should talk to Mr. Carson, and explain that he should let you attend."

It was sweet to hear her encourage him, but he had a feeling it would be a futile fight. Still, he murmured his thanks, and watched her turn and enter the hospital. _I would kiss her before she left, _he thought to himself. _If she were my wife, I would kiss her every day before we parted. Kiss her and murmur "remember me" against her lips. _ He sighed and turned the car around. Lord, he prayed that day would be soon.

* * *

><p>Despite the sweet interlude he had had that morning with Sybil on the way to the hospital, the day had not gotten any better.<p>

Upon returning from the station where he had taken Lady Mary, he snuck upstairs to where William's room lay, and gently knocked on the door. Mr. Mason was there, of course, as was Lady Edith. But other than the two of them, William was all by himself.

"I wished to pay my respects to the groom," he explained to both Lady Edith and Mr. Mason, but looked down at where William lay and gave him a warm smile. He then produced a small flask of whisky from his back pocket. "And we can't have a wedding without a stag night."

Lady Edith gasped and then hissed at him, "He can't have that!"

"Then I'll drink his share too," Branson explained, before winking at William.

William's smile was weak and his breathing was labored, but the look in his eyes seemed to glow with genuine amusement.

Mr. Mason smiled too, but Branson could tell that the man was trying to hold back his tears. "Come," he murmured to Lady Edith. "Let's fetch ourselves a cup of tea…"

"Very well," she sighed, rising from her chair, but pausing to give him a look of warning. "But by no means are you to give him anything in that flask!"

"Aye, milady," he said with a teasing salute.

She tried not to giggle, she tried to continue holding that serious, matronly expression, but he could tell it was difficult. He liked Lady Edith, he really did. Just as he sometimes wondered what it would be like to be Mr. Matthew's friend, he sometimes wondered about having Lady Edith for a sister-in-law. He had a feeling she would be much more accepting and inviting to such a relationship than Lady Mary.

After Mr. Mason and Lady Edith left, Branson took the chair where Mr. Mason had been sitting, and lifted the flask in cheers to William. They talked briefly about what was happening in the house, William wishing to hear more about the friends he had left behind when he went to war. He was glad that Mr. Bates was back, grumbled about Thomas in general, and asked after Gwen. "I wish I could see her when she visits…" he sighed.

The mirth that had been in Branson's eyes disappeared then. The sudden realization dawned on him that when Gwen made her visit before summer's end…William wouldn't…he wouldn't…

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his emotions under control. His hands clenched into fists and he took a few deep breaths, all the while trying to maintain a false, comforting smile.

"She wrote me once about her children," William continued. "Tell me about them? I understand that you saw them last winter?"

"Aye…" Branson answered, swallowing the lump in his throat and proceeding to tell William about little Annie and Tommy. William's smile only grew at the descriptions of the two red-headed babes, and how happy Gwen was with both her family, and her job. He tried to be careful with his descriptions; he didn't want to upset William, talking about things like…the future. But amazingly, William only smiled and continued to ask questions, happy to hear about all the wonderful things, or so he thought, that were happening in the lives of his friends.

"Mr. Branson—"

"_Tom_, William," he interrupted, trying his hardest to keep the tears from showing. "We just toasted to your marriage—I think we can dispense with formalities."

William smiled at this and nodded his head, before continuing. "Tom…promise me…promise me that you'll look after Daisy?"

_Oh God_. His throat was tightening and his vision was blurring. _Please don't do this, William; I'm barely hanging on as it is…_

"I know that so many of you care for her," he went on. "I know I can trust you, and Mrs. Patmore, and Anna to look after her and make sure Thomas doesn't bully her—"

"If he does, I promise I'll shut him up with my fist just as you did before the War started," he vowed with a chuckle that soon led to a bit of an emotional hiccup.

William grinned and held out his hand to Branson, who didn't hesitate to take it. "And…make sure she follows in yours and Gwen's footsteps."

This startled Branson. "Mine and Gwen's?"

William weakly nodded. "Gwen followed her dreams and left service. And I know that one day you'll do the same." Would he? He remembered how had told Sybil long ago that he wouldn't always be a chauffeur. And ever since last summer, he had been brushing up on his knowledge about politics: reading, making notes, typing essays, all for some purpose of some kind. He was still trying to figure that out…

"Daisy…she's an excellent cook, and if that's what she wants to be, then help her to achieve that. But…don't let her settle for always being a kitchen maid. Don't let her settle at all. Can you promise me that?"

How could he deny his friend this request, which by no means was a small thing? "I promise, William," he whispered, not trusting his voice to go any higher than that. He squeezed William's hand, and William weakly returned the squeeze. He murmured his thanks, and then settled deeper onto the pillow, his eyes beginning to drift shut in exhaustion. Branson rose then, knowing he should leave and let William rest. A light knock brought him back to reality, and both Lady Edith and Mr. Mason reentered. "He's sleeping," Branson murmured, and then without another word, quickly left the room before they could see the tears that were streaming down his cheeks.

* * *

><p>He wished that had been the worst of it.<p>

He wished that after that emotional meeting with William, his mind and heart could find some peace, and the stress that was threatening to break him half would lift at last.

But it was not meant to be.

"Oh look, here's 'Comrade Branson', returned from the great and glorious 'Revolution'," O'Brien muttered as he reentered the Servant's Hall.

He wasn't in the mood, so he snapped at the lady's maid about what she was going on about. She merely smirked and tossed the servant's paper to him.

"Appears your 'Russian Bolshevik friends' had quite the time with the Tsar and his family."

He frowned and looked down at the paper she had tossed him. His eyes practically bulged at the headline. The Tsar was dead? He picked up the paper and continued reading the first two paragraphs that followed.

Dead. All of them, the entire Imperial Family…dead.

His wife. His children…each and every one. Shot.

_Massacred_.

"Mr. Branson?"

He lifted his head at the sound of the housekeeper's voice. She looked concerned—_very_ concerned, and he had no idea how he must look right now, but judging from the way she was looking at him, he could only imagine it wasn't good.

"Are you alright, lad?"

"Careful, Mrs. Hughes," Miss O'Brien warned from her seat. "You're talking to a _revolutionary_. The very man who told us all, a year ago, that the Russians wouldn't harm their own king, that they wouldn't set an example by killing innocent children. Suppose he told us all that so we wouldn't suspect him of his own foul play; I'd sleep with one eye open if I was you—"

"Well you're _not_ me, are you Miss O'Brien?" Mrs. Hughes snapped. She turned her attention back to Branson, but he was numbly staring at the article before him, and had hardly registered any of the conversation between the housekeeper and lady's maid.

They had done it. They actually…_murdered_…those girls. Lined them up, luring them under false pretense that they would be "taking their picture" before executing them via firing squad.

Glorious revolution, indeed; where was the glory to be found in this slaughter?

"Lad?"

He looked up at the housekeeper, her eyes still lit with concern, but he could also read her sympathy. He felt numb…and tired. He was so exhausted, and he wondered if his heart was having a murmur…

"I'm going to back to the garage," he answered, his voice a simple monotone. If anything was else was said, he didn't hear it. He didn't look, either. But he did take the paper with him, despite any protests that may have been made.

Upon returning to the garage, he unbuttoned his jacket, loosened his tie…and sank down onto the step of the Renault, holding the paper in his hands and reading the article again…although he wasn't sure why; he didn't see printed words before him, but images. Bloody images of frightened children, begging for mercy…

_Is it worth it?_

He wanted equality for all people. He wanted freedom for his homeland. He wanted justice for the oppressed…but at what cost? His cousin was dead. His friend was dying. And now…_this_.

O'Brien's words began to fill his head once again. She had called him a "revolutionary", a word he had always admired, but the way she had said it wasn't with idealistic visions of freedom fighters marching up and down city streets, protesting and crying out for justice…no, the image she painted, and the image this article presented were killers. Murderers. Terrorists.

_But I'm a socialist, _not_ a revolutionary._ Wasn't that what he had told Sybil that one time? Wasn't that what he had said to Lady Mary, when Sybil had been injured in Ripon during the Count? But didn't Lady Mary say that she doubted her father would understand the difference? Yes…she _had_ said something like that. And now, as he looked upon this article…he began to understand why some people couldn't.

He slowly lifted his head at the sound of footsteps. _Her footsteps._ He knew them by heart.

Sybil came walking in, her pace determined. She had changed; gone was her uniform and instead she was wearing various shades of purple. _She looks beautiful in purple—she looks beautiful in anything._ How long had she been back? Was it really that late? He remembered Sybil telling him she would be returning early, in the late afternoon, but…where had the time gone?

"Mary's telephoned," she sighed, the circles under her eyes still present from when he saw her this morning. Her nose looked a little red too, as if she had been blowing it. Had she been crying? "She'll be on a late train, it gets in at eleven."

She sounded as exhausted as he felt. What a pair they were…both emotionally drained, and yet the both of them being asked to stand strong and firm for the people in their lives.

"All right," he murmured, his response just as numb as his heart. He looked down at the paper once again, but it was too painful to read those paragraphs anymore. So instead, he decided to ask a question that only caused the pain in his heart to throb, further. "How's William?"

He wasn't sure why he asked her that; it wasn't as if he didn't know. He just…he needed to her there. She understood him better than anyone, and asking about William, asking if she was aware as much as he was about their friend…just seemed to fit.

Sybil seemed a little taken aback by his question. She probably thought the same thing; "don't you know? Didn't you see him?" But if she did think these things, she didn't say them. Instead, she sighed and shook her head. "It's so sad…" she walked around the car to stand by his side, and he could hear the frustration in her voice as she mentioned her sister's name, about how she was keeping a close watch on William, but how there was nothing to be done. He knew Sybil; this wasn't spoken to sound harsh. No, she too was upset by the senselessness of it all.

He hadn't realized how he must have drifted off into his own, sad thoughts, until he heard her voice asking him what was wrong.

_"So many things!"_ he wanted to shout. Where did one begin? But instead, he swallowed, trying to once again keep a hold of his emotions, and decided to tell her about this most recent bit of news. "They shot the Tsar," he paused, "And all of his family."

She gasped and lifted her head, her voice sounding pained. "How terrible…"

Oh his sweet Sybil. With her big heart and loving spirit. He could tell that the news shocked her. She knew about the Tsar, of course. They had talked about it on several occasions. She knew his thoughts on the matter, his idealistic, naïve view that the Bolsheviks wanted change, not bloodshed. Now she knew what a fool he was for believing such fairy stories.

He took a deep breath, the emotion rising again. "I'm sorry," he muttered, before rising to his feet. "I'll not deny it," he grumbled again, the numbness beginning to wash away and melt into disgust. Acts like this didn't create change. They brought terror to more innocents. They turned freedom fighters into villains. They painted people like him as "the enemy". He threw the paper down into the car with a little more force than necessary, before stuffing his hands into his pockets and turning to face her. "I never thought they'd do it," he said, gazing into her eyes. Did she see him like that? Like some sort of…monster?

No. If anything, he saw sympathy in the blue-gray depths. Sympathy and…_oh God, please_, understanding.

"Sometimes the future needs terrible sacrifices…" he found himself saying before he realized the words had escaped his mouth. "You thought that once."

She seemed taken aback by this, too. Perhaps more so by his statement. "If you mean my politics, you've know we've agreed to put that to one side until the War is won."

Aye, he knew. He also knew (while she had never told him this), that when the request came out for all suffragettes to put their fight aside to support the men going off to battle, that she was deeply disappointed. She would never admit that, at least not while the War was still raging, but he knew the request had hurt her.

"You're lot did," he muttered, recalling her disappointment then. "But Sylvia Pankhurst was all for fighting on—"

"Oh, don't badger me, please!"

He had gone too far…again. He had upset her, perhaps even hurt her, and right now they were both so emotionally drained from everything going on around them and in the world, that the last thing he should be doing is creating an enemy in the dearest friend he ever had and the only woman he had ever loved.

She was turning to leave, to march out of the garage and march away from him. No, he would not let this be a repeat of what happened earlier that spring, when he had insulted her work. He reached out, meaning to grab her hand—but instead…his hand fell to her hip.

Sybil froze. He froze. The gesture had caused her to not only turn around and face him…but also brought them closer. _Much_ closer…

Her eyes were locked on his throat…then lifted slightly to his mouth…before finally rising to his own. He swallowed as he watched her, and then realized that his hand was still on her hip…and his fingers had spread, touching her waist…and feeling the sharp intake of breath, causing her body to tremble against his hand. Lord, how he wanted to make her tremble with his hands…

He didn't want to, but he knew that he should, especially before…something happened. So with great reluctance, he lowered his hand…but she didn't step away from him like he thought she would. She was still trembling…and her eyes kept moving from his…to his mouth.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, but his eyes never left hers as he spoke. "Sometimes a hard sacrifice must be made for a future that's worth having…that's all I'm saying."

Did she realize he wasn't talking about the atrocity that had happened to the Tsar's family? Did she realize that he wasn't badgering her, that he wasn't trying to upset her, that…he wanted her more than ever?

William was dying, and his dying wish was to marry Daisy. Lady Mary may still be in love with Mr. Matthew, who may have broken his engagement to Miss Swire, who now was the one suffering a broken heart. Too many broken hearts, too many tragic scenes, and it all seemed to be caused by foolishness.

No…this would not be his future. "That's up to you." Which was true; his future was up to her. It had always been.

She was swaying…

Her eyes were fluttering…and continued to travel from his, to his mouth…and a soft gasp escaped his own lips as he watched hers part…

Was she…?

He felt his own body sway. His own eyes were traveling back and forth from her own to her beautiful lips…

He held his breath. He waited. _Let her move first, don't frighten her away! Let her kiss you, let her kiss you! _

He was shaking…waiting…waiting for her as she swayed again, her head so close…so close…

_Oh sweet Jesus, this is going to happen!_

And then…the spell was broken.

She seemed to suddenly realize what she was about to do…how close she was…how close they both were. And she sucked in a quick breath…before turning on her heel and fleeing him. Again.

He closed his eyes and let out the long, shaky sigh of disappointment, while inwardly cursing himself.

It was tempting to go after her. To run and follow her and reach out for her and capture her. To turn her around and force her to face him, to look at him, and before she could protest, taking her mouth and kiss her with all the emotion he had been feeling for so many years…

It was tempting, yes…but he didn't. Not like that. Never like that.

He had supper by himself that night. He did his job and fetched Lady Mary when the time came, brought her back to the house and simply murmured "good night to her" as she exited the car. He took the car back to the garage, turned off the lights, and then made himself ready for bed.

He didn't write in his journal. He didn't read any of his books. And…he didn't walk the grounds, or stop to gaze up at her window. Instead, he lay in the darkness of his cottage, the events, the stories, the promises, and the possibilities of that day replaying over and over in his head.

When morning came, he sent word that he was ill and would spend the day in bed, recuperating.

It wasn't a complete lie; his heart _was_ sick.

* * *

><p><em>Hang in there everyone! Something *good* is on it's way...just be patient! :o)<em>


	108. Sybil's Diary XXVII

_It's two in the morning, but I don't care; I wanted to get this posted while the iron was hot. A little more angst, all cumulating to a BIG moment that will be coming very soon. I'm going to try and have the next chapter posted later on Sunday, so stay tuned! I know that these last few chapters in this section have been a little tough on the emotions, so thanks for sticking with it despite all that. It will get better, I promise! Thank you to everyone for their support and encouragement during my "writer's block" moment last week, when my muse decided to go on an extended coffee break. She's back now, and ready to get things moving again (hooray!) So anyway, thank you for reading, and as always, please leave a comment._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Eight<strong>

August 19, 1918

I missed it.

I…I'm just…oh, I just feel so many things right now. Anger, sadness, regret…

…

…

I was truly hoping I could be there. I wanted to be present, standing beside Edith, ready to congratulate my…my friend…as he married the woman he loves. I wanted to be a part of it so badly…but I wasn't.

I know that Granny has been struggling over the past few days, trying to convince Mr. Travis to come and perform this ceremony for William and Daisy. I know that it has been most vexing for her, and if I had known have the trouble she and Edith were having in getting him to do this, oh I would…I would…

…

…

Well, that's probably why I didn't find out until this evening.

They…they aren't sure how much longer William will have. That was why it seemed so crucial to have Mr. Travis come this afternoon to perform the ceremony. I knew, according to what Branson had said to me yesterday in the car, that they were hoping to have it very soon, but…I just didn't think it would be this soon! And I was trying to change my shifts, trying to convince Nurse Reynolds, or Nurse Peterson, or even dear Molly, our newest nurse who wants to have a little more experience at the hospital; I tried to see if any of them could trade shifts with me, just for this one day…

But it was impossible.

…

It's for the best, I suppose. No doubt, had I been able to secure the shift change, Mr. Travis wouldn't have been able to come until the day after, when I would have to return to the hospital. I'll never know, really. All I can do is wish them well, and—

…

…

…

Oh God, I nearly forgot for that brief moment, that…that William…

…

…

…

Lord, I can't stop crying!

…

…

I've gotten up and paced the room for a few moments, hoping that would help. But I don't know if I dare continue; I can barely understand my handwriting, the way it's shaking so…and my tears keep hitting the page, causing the ink to run…

…

…

I can't begin to imagine what that must have been like, witnessing such a wedding. I mean, the last wedding I attended was Gwen's! And it was just so…so…wonderful! Aside from the fact that I sprained my ankle, it was beautiful ceremony, and the wedding breakfast that followed was such a joyous occasion, with laughter and dancing! And Gwen and her husband, Edward, they looked so happy! And I remember thinking as I watched them murmur their vows…if I marry, will it be like that for me?

…

Oh Lord, I'm…I'm being far too self-absorbed in this whole matter, it's not about me, it was never about me, this is about William and Daisy, and…and while I am sad I couldn't be there, I am happy for them, truly. I'm happy for him…for my friend…

…

…

God, I can't stop crying!

…

If it weren't half-past one in the morning, I'd be tempted to…to…to go to Branson's cottage. But I know that's impossible. And besides, he's been ill all day, according to Anna. And he wouldn't want to hear any of this; I know he wasn't allowed to attend the wedding, so it would just upset him if I did bring it up, but…

God, help me, I can't stop thinking about yesterday, either. Meaning, what happened in the garage.

I…I didn't write about it in my diary last night. I was just…so startled; I'm still startled by what happened. I mean, he and I have…touched, before, but…not like that.

…

…

And I nearly kissed him.

…

…Or…or he nearly kissed me…

I'm not sure.

…

But it almost happened. We almost _kissed_…

…

We didn't though. _Almost_ is the key word. I…I don't know what came over me; I mean, it was the middle of the day, anyone could have seen us, the garage doors were wide open! I don't know what came over me, but…but I came to the garage to tell him about Mary wanting the car for when she arrived on the late train, and then…then he was telling me about the death of the Tsar and his entire family, and then the next thing I know, we're arguing about…about sacrifices for the future, and he mentioned Sylvia Pankhurst, and I…I just got so upset, and it was on top of everything that's been happening this week! From Matthew's and William's return, to Matthew learning that he won't be able to walk or…or the possible break of his engagement to Lavinia, and then poor William…oh God, it was just too much! I've barely been able to keep myself from falling apart at the seams this week! And when he started badgering me about these things, I wanted to scream!

…

…And that was when he touched me.

…

His hand…on…on my waist…touching my hip…

…

I mean, I've…I've held his hands before, and we have touched before…he's even touched my waist once, I remember, although it was brief, but…but this…

…This wasn't as brief. This…this _lingered_. His hand moved to stop me, and…and I felt his fingers, long and…firm…spread from my hip, to my waist…and…and I couldn't breathe…

…

…

…

Oh God, I need some water.

…

…

And…and after he spoke, I…I couldn't stop looking at his mouth…his beautiful, masculine lips…like a sculpted statue…

I was swaying…I…I kept looking at his lips…and then up at his eyes…and he…he was swaying too! And looking at my lips, and…and…oh God, it was so tempting, so tempting to just…let go and give in at last! And I find myself, right now, questioning myself, asking, "Why didn't you? Why didn't you stay? Why didn't you let him kiss you? Or you kiss him? Why did you leave?" And…and I don't have a good answer, other than the usual answers I've given before, which is…I was scared. I am scared of these feelings. These are not timid feelings that are raging through my heart; I feel like I'm on fire whenever I'm near him, and I feel a strange…tingle…running up and down my spine, and spreading through my body whenever I hear the brogue of his voice, and…and just…the way he says my name…how it makes my toes curl. How…how I find myself panting, practically. My heart skipping a beat, whenever he looks at me as intensely as he did yesterday. But these feelings, these…these passions…they frighten me because I've never felt or known such…such desire for another as I do with him! And…and I've never kissed anyone before, either. Good God, I can just imagine it now, leaning in, kissing him, and…just…being a complete fool. What do I do with my hands? I mean, where do I put them?

…

…

Oh stop imagining such things! Gracious, sometimes I think I'm as bad as those "randy officers".

…

I don't know why I keep going on and on about all this. This isn't about ME; this is about William and Daisy.

I saw Edith very briefly this evening. She looked exhausted, the poor dear. It was she who told me that Mr. Travis had come. I was so shocked, (and…I confess, a little disappointed) that I didn't think of asking her about how it had been. But Anna…dear Anna, she told me when she came to my room earlier. She told me about how the kitchen maids, even though they couldn't attend, had brought in flowers and with hers and Edith's help, decorated the room with garlands of lilies and roses. And she told me about Daisy, how sweet she looked, her hair done up in fancy curls, and Jane, our newest maid, leant her a tube of lipstick. Carson stepped in to "give the bride away" and a majority of the upstairs indoor staff attended, including Mrs. Hughes, Bates and Anna, Thomas and O'Brien, and even Mrs. Patmore, although that's not too much of a surprise. And…and the ceremony wasn't long, it was short, but…but William sat up as straight as he could…and while Mr. Travis read the vows, William held Daisy's hand…so tenderly…and…and then he slipped the ring on her finger…

…

…

…And then she leant her down to kiss him…

…

…

…

How it possible that I still have this many tears? I would think I have nothing left by now!

…

Yes, it…it was a beautiful ceremony, Anna told me. She even mentioned that Granny had cried, although I know she would never admit it. But she's very fond of William…we all are…

…

Oh William…

…

…

…

It…it seems that marriage is in the air. I learned from Mama, who told me after I returned home this evening, that Mary's engagement was announced in the papers! I…I didn't know what to say—I still don't know what to say. I've had a few hours to digest the news, but…but I'm still surprised. And I'm not sure why, because Mary did go to London yesterday to see him, and…and I suppose this was the reason, but…I…I thought she…oh gracious, I don't know why I continue wondering about her and Matthew. I just…I hate learning these things after everyone else, especially since I always seem to be looked upon as an "after thought". But…for Mary to agree to have their engagement announced, I suppose…I suppose it does truly mean that she's serious about marrying Sir Richard.

…

The only bright spot of this whole wretched day is Cousin Isobel is back! I was so shocked to see her walk through the hospital doors that I nearly dropped the bedpan I was holding. But I quickly put it down and rushed to her in the hallway and threw my arms around her, not realizing how deeply I've missed having her here, until I saw her at last. She smiled and held me tight and returned my hug, but of course she was eager to see Matthew, and I directed her to where she could find him…which was where Mary was, too. And…and I suppose that's why I'm so confused, meaning about Mary, wanting to marry Sir Richard Carlisle, because when I look at the way she dotes on Matthew, listens to him, even rubs his back while he's being sick…

…

…

Is that not an example of true devotion? Is that not a sign of…of _love?_

…

And yet Mary has publically announced for all the world to see, her engagement to Sir Richard Carlisle. While Matthew breaks off his own with Lavinia, who left Downton today to return to London, brokenhearted. And William marries his sweetheart…while lying on his deathbed.

…

…

And I sit huddled in my own corner of the world, terrified of what may happen if…if I give in to my own desires.

…

_This_ is the cruel game that Love plays. And in all honesty…I'm just too exhausted to play back.


	109. A Sixth Letter to Nowhere

_First, Shana-Rose, I want to warn you to have your tissues ready, because I am sad to say that yes, this is the chapter that deals with poor William's death. I apologize for the sadness of this chapter, especially considering the format in which it comes. But really, it seemed to make so much sense that of all people, Branson would "write" to his cousin about this incident. So now we muddle through the sadness of William's death, a subject that will be the focus for the next few chapters...BUT, hang in there everyone! (That's all I can really say; just...be on the lookout for the next chapter which will hopefully be posted by Tuesday at the latest!)_

_AND HUGE THANK YOU'S to EVERYONE who reads and comments, because now my story has received *OVER 500* reviews! :oD Thank you so much for your encouraging thoughts and words of support! They truly mean so much to me, and I'm sorry I haven't been responding to each one individually, but please know-I do treasure each comment and they do mean the world. So thank you again!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Nine<strong>

Dear Martin,

I wish I didn't have to write this…

In all honesty, I'm…I'm putting off having to write this to someone else. A dear friend, who will be visiting before the summer's end, and whose visit should have been happy and uplifting…but now will be marked with tragedy. And…I'm dreading having to write that letter. I'm dreading having to tell her about…about…

…

…

About the death of our friend.

…

…

…

God Martin, I…I forgive me, but…but in so many ways, it feels like I've lost you all over…

…

He was a good lad, William. I know I've talked with you about him before; I know I've written to you about him before. Oh God, he…he still _is_ a good lad—not even death can stop that. And I should say "man", because despite his young age and sometimes…naïve view of the world, he had such…courage, and optimism. He always strove to do what he thought was right, even at the expense of his own happiness...and his own life. He is perhaps one of the best men I've ever met. Certainly one of the bravest.

He died as…as I think he would have wanted to. He wanted to do his part of the War so badly. As soon as he had the opportunity, he joined the army, no looking back. I remember thinking him a fool at the time, and I can't deny there is still a part of me that thinks him a fool for…for being eager to rush into a war and get himself killed. But he never saw it like that. He saw it as an opportunity to serve his country…and even though my view is quite different to his…I can't fault him for wanting to serve his homeland, as that's what I want to do for mine. And…perhaps I'm just as foolish, then? But William died a hero, sacrificing his life for another man. And…and I know that is how he will always be remembered, as a hero to his country, and to Downton, for saving Mr. Matthew's life. But…while I will not deny him these honors, I like to remember him as a hero for other reasons…

Martin, did I ever tell you about the time William found a bird's nest in the rafters of the garage? This was years ago, but…I remember going to the Servant's Hall, and grumbling about some "infernal tweeting" happening over my head, while I worked. William came out to the garage, and I pointed to where I was hearing the birds…and without a second's thought, he took a stepstool, climbed up, and reached up as far as he could (thankfully, the nest was situated on a low beam) and found the nest.

There was only one bird inside, and for some reason the mother had abandoned it. But William refused to let the small thing starve. He went out into the garden and dug up worms and captured spiders and hand-fed that tiny thing until it was big enough to fly on its own. He did this for over a month, Martin. I let him keep the nest in the garage, as I knew Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes wouldn't let him bring it inside the house, but…I remember being so amazed by his dedication for something so small, and so helpless.

He was a great help to the other members of staff as well. I know that Mr. Carson will dearly miss William; I sometimes wonder if he saw William as…as a son, in some ways? I think the same is true for both Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore. William did what he could to help them, always volunteering if a task needed help. He spoke up for those he thought were being wronged or bullied. I remember him speaking in Mr. Bates' defense to both O'Brien and Thomas, when Anna's voice wasn't enough to get them to shut up. And of course he spoke in defense of Daisy. She was…she was his world, Martin. She was the sun to which he revolved. And when he thought she was smitten with Thomas, even though it broke his heart, he wouldn't say a thing to upset her, because…because he loved her too much. If…if I could be a tenth of the man William Mason was—_is_—well, I would be much, much better man than the one I am now.

…

…

It's always tragic to see someone so young die. But...I think it happened the way he wanted it to. Does that make sense? Or am I simply saying that to relieve my sorrow?

William came back to Downton, to die. He didn't die in some white-washed hospital, but here…in a place familiar to him, surrounded by those that he cared about. His father was here, and rarely left his side. Lady Edith looked after him the entire time, showing such compassion and dedication. All of us, all of us who cared for him, had an opportunity to…to…

…

…To say our goodbyes.

…

I had my chance two days ago.

He…he just smiled and asked me questions about the rest of the staff, and he asked after Gwen, and wanted to know about her children, and…and then…and then he asked me to look after Daisy, and…oh God, he asked me to make sure she never settles; to encourage her to be like Gwen and…and myself.

Don't know why anyone would want to be like me, but…William saw something in me I suppose that I never did—a possibility to be more than I am. I mean, I always said I wouldn't be a chauffeur, but…what I have really done to prove otherwise? Take some notes and type a few essays? I haven't even done anything with those. And yet…and yet William believes that one day, I will. That one day I will follow my dreams…whatever those may be.

…

Forgive me, I…I'm being cynical, I know, I'm just…I don't deserve William's good faith. Or Gwen's, or Anna's, or…or Sybil's…

…

…

The one thing William wanted more than anything was to marry Daisy. And that was what he did with the last few hours that he had. The vicar came, and the ceremony was held in William's room. I wish I could have been there, but…well, I've groaned about that so much, I don't need to waste anymore ink on the matter. The point is, William's wish came true, and I am glad for him. And I admire him for it; I admire him for thinking of Daisy…thinking of _everyone_, but himself, even in those last hours.

…

I love Sybil.

I know you know that. God knows I've told you so many times over the past few years. I know you don't approve—you never approved. I don't know if Sybil feels the same way for me as I feel for her—I like to think I know, I sometimes make myself believe that she does, but what I'm basing all of that on are "signs" that I see, that…that I want to believe are true. And there are times when I find myself doubting—doubting that anything will happen. But…after witnessing William's selfless love for Daisy…and after hearing about the wedding from Anna, who was kind and slipped a letter under my cottage door telling me about the ceremony…I…I want to believe that I could do what William did, if our roles were reversed. If that were me, lying on that bed, knowing I was going to die…I want to believe that despite any doubts that I have, I would have the courage to marry Sybil, right then and there…even if it meant knowing I…I could never have the future that I dream about the two of us sharing.

…

…

William isn't just a war hero, or Capt. Crawley's hero—he's mine, as well. And I will miss him, Martin. I will miss him, just as I miss you.

So please…please look after him? I…I want to believe there is a place where good people, like William, like you, can go after they die. I want to believe that William was met by his mother, who embraced him, who welcomed him home…and if you can, Martin, please…tell him how much he will be missed by all of us…and tell him what I told you. About how I admire him? About…about how I hope I can be half the man he is, and that I will keep my promise, I will encourage Daisy to pursue her dreams, to never settle for less than she's worth, and…and to do the same for myself.

Watch over him, dear cousin. Please. That is my prayer.

…

…

And…and somehow, give me the strength for what I have to do next; writing to a dear friend and telling her this sad news.

…

…

Thank you, Martin. Thank you for letting me do this; for receiving these letters that are never posted. Because with each stroke of the pen, I do feel that you are here, reading them. I just…I wish sometimes, that I could receive a letter from you. I miss you so much, Martin. Please…please know that. Know that you are missed, dearly. And please…look after my friend.

—Tom


	110. Sweet Comfort

_So remember that "surprise" I promised a while back? (Is it still a surprise, since I kept dropping hints and telling everyone to "hang in there"?) Well anyway, THIS CHAPTER has that surprise! :oD And it is a long chapter, I warn you that, BUT hopefully you will enjoy it, and hopefully it will provide a bit of respite from all the emotional angst in the previous chapters. As you may have gathered from reading this story, I do try to stay relateively "in canon" when it comes to series' 1 & 2. And while some could argue and say this veers from that, I would argue otherwise...but I'll get into that at another time, cause I don't want to give too much away! _

_THANK YOU AGAIN for reading and helping me get over 500 reviews! :oD Please keep leaving comments, I appreciate them so much! Enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Ten<strong>

It had been a wretched day.

She had had a horrible night's sleep the previous evening, no doubt caused by the stress of the last few days. When she did finally manage to get some sleep, she overslept, and woke an entire hour after she was supposed to be at the hospital. She let out a string of curses, and dressed as quickly as possible. She raced downstairs and prayed that Branson could drive her—but he was nowhere in sight.

"Mrs. Crawley needed the car," Carson explained, when Sybil questioned where he had gone. "Something about wanting to get a second opinion from a spinal specialist in York."

_York_. Branson had taken Cousin Isobel to York. Which could mean she wouldn't see him for…heaven knows how long. Pratt, however, was available, and so he took Sybil to the hospital, where she then had to more or less bow and scrape to Nurse Daniels, begging her pardon and hoping that the firm, but normally fair nurse, would understand. Sybil was forgiven for her "irresponsibility", however Nurse Daniels was clearly stressed as well, and told Sybil that she could make it up by staying an hour past when her shift would end. This seemed fair, even though Sybil knew it would mean she wouldn't be leaving the hospital until after nine at night. Still, she accepted her "punishment", and got to work.

She wanted to see Matthew; despite the fact that she had been working at the hospital for most of the week, she really hadn't had an opportunity to sit and talk with him. Mainly because Mary was there looking after him, and Sybil didn't want to interrupt. She peeked in on Matthew before beginning her rounds, but he was sound asleep and Sybil definitely didn't want to rouse him from that. No doubt his sleep was far more fitful than hers. She went about her tasks, restocking the shelves in the supply cupboard, emptying bedpans, cleaning sheets, washing three patients, and at one point, stitched one man who had accidently broken his water glass. The hours were sluggish, despite all the work she did. There were more patients than usual, all in varying forms of injury and recovery. One of the patients she had been bathing had a nasty discoloration on his foot. The flesh was tender, and the man whimpered when she attempted to wash it. She was filled with worry as she noticed that the veins in his leg, just above his foot, were of a similar color. When she was done bathing the patient, she immediately went to Dr. Clarkson, and reported what she had seen. He and a surgeon returned to the very man (Pvt. Quincy), and examined the foot that she had mentioned. "Gangrene", Dr. Clarkson sighed, and the surgeon agreed. Sybil's breath caught in her throat at the pronouncement; she knew what this would mean…and apparently, so did Pvt. Quincy.

"No…no, you can't cut off me foot!" he begged, reaching out to Dr. Clarkson. "Please…I…I need my foot; I'm a farmer, I'm supposed to inherit me dad's farm—I can't farm if I can't walk!"

Sybil tried to swallow the lump in her throat. How often had she heard men beg like this, upon learning they would have to lose a limb? It seemed worse for the men who…well, who _worked_…to make their living. Men who depended upon their physical strength and abilities to put food on the table and keep their children warm in winter. She wished she could offer some words of comfort, but there was nothing, really, that could be said to comfort any man in such a moment like this.

She gasped when Pvt. Quincy reached out and gripped her arm. "Please…" he begged, tears in his eyes, tears rolling down his bruised cheeks. "Please nurse, please don't let them cut me! Please don't let them take my foot!"

"Pvt. Quincy, please!" Dr. Clarkson ordered, immediately coming to Sybil's aid and gripping the man's arm which was desperately clinging to her own. "Release Nurse Crawley at once!"

Sybil was in complete shock. She was staring back at Pvt. Quincy, her mouth hanging open, wanting to tell him it would be alright, wanting to tell him anything that would remove that fear and that sorrow she saw reflected in his tear-filled eyes. But the words were like dust in her mouth, and she could only stare back and murmur, "I'm sorry…" meaning every bit of that tiny phrase, even though she knew it would do little for poor Pvt. Quincy.

Dr. Clarkson succeeded in loosening Pvt. Quincy's grip from her arm, and then ordered her to leave the room. Sybil didn't want to leave, she wanted to stay and do something for the poor man, but what? So she mutely nodded her head, and numbly turned and left the room, not looking back…even when she could hear Pvt. Quincy cry out her name, asking her to help him, asking her to reason with them, asking her to do anything she could…to save him from the fate he was going to face very soon.

Sybil ran outside then; she ran outside to the place where some of the other nurses would go for a cigarette break. She was gasping and taking in great gulping breaths of air, while trying hard to keep her own sobs from escaping.

It didn't help the fact that Pvt. Quincy reminded her of William. Same age…same height…same hair and eye color…

_William_...her dear, dear friend. Did he know that she thought of him as her dear friend? Did he know that in her eyes, he _was_ her friend? Was she _his_ friend? Did he think of her in that way? Or was she just "another Crawley" in his eyes? Another member of the aristocracy that demanded to be waited and served upon by someone like him?

In all the time he had been back at the house, Sybil hadn't had the chance to sit and speak with him. She saw him only once; that day when she had come to the garage to tell Branson about Mary arriving on the late train, and they had nearly argued and he…and he…and he had touched her.

Yes, that was what she remembered the most of that day. Branson's hand on her hip…on her waist…and how she nearly gave in to the temptation and…kissed him.

Before all of that had happened, she had gone to see William, hoping to have a chance to speak with him just as some of the others had done. But he was asleep, and Mr. Mason was there, sitting by his bedside, brushing some hair from his boy's face, while Edith sat nearby, looking so...so natural, at her "nurse's desk", reminding Sybil of Nurse Daniels, and perhaps even Nurse Templeton, to a point. No, she didn't have the heart to wake dear William then…so she left, hoping that another opportunity would present itself…and perhaps she would be able to attend the wedding. But that didn't come to be, either. The wedding took place yesterday, when her grandmother had finally managed to convince Mr. Travis to conduct the ceremony. Anna had told her everything about it, and Sybil had smiled while her friend did this, but still…she was sad that she hadn't been able to attend.

"Nurse Crawley?"

She looked up and met the eyes of two other nurses, both of whom were sharing a cigarette. "Everything alright?" one of them asked.

Sybil put on a smile and nodded her head. "Just…became overwhelmed by…by the heat in there," she explained. "Needed some fresh air."

The other two nodded their heads. "Right stuffy in there, that's for sure," grumbled one.

"Who would have thought it feels cooler out there?" muttered the other, taking a long drag on the cigarette.

Sybil didn't care for smoking. She had tried it once, back in York, and spent the entire time coughing and nearly losing her lunch. But right now, it seemed like a welcome break from…the tragedy that was this war. "Have anymore?" she asked, walking over to the other two nurses. They looked a little surprised by her question, clearly not used to seeing her join them for fag breaks.

"This be my only one," the one on Sybil's right sighed. "Thought I had a few more, but I was wrong. Who knows when I'll next have the chance to pop down to the shops—but go on," she said with a smile, handing what was left of the cigarette to Sybil.

She thanked the nurse, and took a quick drag on the stub, before coughing again just like before. Oh yes, now she remembered…

"T-t-t-t-thank you…" she managed to stutter between coughs.

The other two nurses grinned, and even giggled at Sybil's display, but she didn't mind. She would laugh too, if she could see herself.

"CRAWLEY!"

She turned quickly and saw Nurse Daniels, standing in the doorway, looking furious. The other two nurses also stood to attention, quickly snuffing their cigarette on the ground.

"SMOKE ON YOUR OWN DAMN TIME!" Nurse Daniels blasted, her face red and furious. "There's a truck full of patients that have just pulled up, so ALL OF YOU GET IN HERE NOW!"

"No rest for the wicked," muttered one of the nurses, and both Sybil and the other one groaned in agreement. They went inside and made their way to the front of the hospital, where indeed there were a great many patients waiting. _Where will all these men go?_ Sybil found herself thinking. Surely the hospital was filled to capacity? Beyond capacity! Nurse Daniels, who was monitoring everything seemed to have read her mind.

"We'll have to set up cots in the corridors," she muttered. She then went on to bark some orders to a few medics, and they quickly went to work setting up the make-shift cots while Sybil and a few other nurses began helping the influx of patients, inside.

The toil of the day continued. A few men were quite severe with their injuries. One man had to be restrained, muttering over and over something about "the rats! The rats are eating me!" The place was maddening and chaotic; she was juggling several tasks, trying to stay focused, trying to keep a calm and cool head, when a part of her wanted nothing more than to scream. And finally…just when it seemed that all was calm after hours and hours of rushing back and forth from one room to another, from assisting one doctor to fetching items for Nurse Daniels…her shift had finally come to an end.

In fact, it had come to an end thirty minutes ago.

"Go home, Nurse Crawley," she heard Dr. Clarkson murmur. She looked up from her task; she had been feeding a patient some broth. "Let someone else do that…you've been here long enough."

Sybil stared at the doctor with confusion, before finally registering what he was saying. She was done for the night. After this long, hellish day…she was finally done.

_But it will all start again tomorrow,_ she found herself thinking. _It's done for now, but it will all begin anew soon. Why do I even bother leaving? Perhaps I should simply stay?_

"I'm going to speak with Nurse Daniels about having you spend the next week at the Convalescent Home."

Her head snapped up at Dr. Clarkson's words. Had the man just been reading her mind? "But…but I don't mind—"

"I know," he reassured, putting on a smile. "You're one of the finest nurses this hospital has ever seen, and I'm not just saying that because of who your father is," he whispered. Sybil smiled back at this, but opened her mouth to protest further. However, Dr. Clarkson lifted his hand, asking for silence. "You've been working very hard this week, Nurse Crawley. And after the sort of shift you've pulled today, I think you need some time away from all this."

The matter wasn't open for discussion. That much she could tell. And perhaps he was right; perhaps it was for the best? Sybil murmured her goodnights, and then went to call the house, hoping that Branson would be able to pick her up. However, it wasn't Branson who arrived with the car…but her sister.

"Edith?" Sybil questioned, surprised to see her sister there. What was she doing? Why had _she_ come to fetch her? Surely Branson was back from York by now, even though she hadn't seen Cousin Isobel all day and it was hard to imagine her cousin not coming to visit Matthew. And besides, Edith had William to look after—

Sybil felt like someone had punched her in the stomach.

"Oh no…" she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else. Edith didn't seem to hear her.

"Come on," Edith sighed, trying to put on a smile as she opened car's front door. "Sit up front with me. I won't tell Papa."

Sybil mutely nodded her head, but a part of her was dreading this ride, or more precisely, dreading the news that was coming with it. As soon as she was settled next to her sister and the car was on its way back to the house, Sybil swallowed the lump in her throat and turned to Edith, waiting for the news.

"Well…I…I'm sure you're surprised to see me…" Edith murmured, clearly trying to make light of the situation. But this was not a time for such moments.

"Edith, please…just tell me," she whispered, feeling numb all over. She didn't want to say the words herself, even though she knew them to be true. Why else would her sister be here? Dear Edith, who had been searching for a sense of purpose, and who in Sybil's eyes had found one, in managing the Convalescent Home and looking after William. How had this affected her sister? She felt the sudden need to reach out, so Sybil did, her hand curling around Edith's elbow.

Edith sighed, and slowed the car down. There was hardly anyone else out and about; it was nearly ten o'clock. She pulled the lever into park, and then turned to face Sybil. The moon was high and full overhead, providing enough light for Sybil to see her sister's face…and see what could only be old tear stains on Edith's pretty cheeks.

"William died this afternoon," Edith whispered, her voice rushing a bit, trying to get all the words out.

She knew it was true. Why else would her sister be there? And she knew it was going to happen; she knew William had come back to Downton to die, that he had married Daisy because he was going to die and wanted to have that be his last, happy memory. And she knew that her grandmother had pushed Mr. Travis into performing the ceremony yesterday because it didn't look like William had very long…

…And yet, the announcement still shocked her.

"H-h-how…?" Sybil stuttered, lifting her eyes to Edith's. She could feel the tears burning, blurring her vision, but they didn't fall, not yet.

"In his sleep," Edith whispered. "I…I had just stepped out, only for a moment," she explained. "Both Daisy and William's father were in there with him. I…I felt it right to give them some privacy. I saw Mrs. Patmore in the corridor. She wanted to check on Daisy—but I hadn't gone but a few feet from the room, when I heard Mr. Mason murmur that…that William was gone."

Gone.

Like a falling star, shooting across the sky. Beautiful to behold, magnificent even; but gone within a few fleeting seconds. William had been like a falling star to Downton Abbey…and his brilliance would be recognized all the more now that…that he was gone, as Edith had said. And perhaps that was what saddened Sybil so; had they realized his brilliance when he was "just a footman"?

She felt her hands being squeezed, and Sybil quickly returned the loving gesture. Edith nodded her head in sympathy, before turning back to the road and restarting the car. They drove the rest of the way in silence. It was all for the best, because Sybil didn't think she could speak at the moment. The tears were still burning her eyes, but they still refused to fall. And despite the summer heat, even in the evening—she felt cold.

_I never got to say goodbye._

The thought hit her like a cannonball.

She never had the chance to speak with William. To thank him for what he had done for her, at Gwen's wedding. To tell him that she always thought of him as her friend…and that she would miss him…and that she wished she could have been there for his wedding_. And now he'll never know…_

They arrived at the house. Edith parked the car outside the garage; it was dark, no sign of life—no sign of Branson.

"He'll take care of it in the morning," Edith whispered, opening the door and climbing out. Sybil mutely nodded her head and followed her sister. "We…we should walk around to the front, actually," Edith advised. Sybil understood without being told. Of course—because the people who were closest to William were grieving. Daisy, Anna, Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore, Carson even. And Branson…he would be with that group of mourners as well. _And me too_, she thought. But…that was forbidden territory, and she knew it. She could grieve for William, of course, but…she wasn't allowed to enter the Servant's Hall and grieve beside them. In their eyes, she didn't know William the way they did; she hadn't worked beside him all those years, she didn't know things like his favorite dishes, or what he liked to do on his afternoons off, or how he even liked to take his tea. She wasn't a part of "their world", and even though she was upset and wanted to shake her fists at the sky for the injustice in his death, she knew she couldn't do it there, with them. It would look and seem like some sort of…_invasion_.

No…they deserved the chance to grieve for their friend in peace, without having to rise and murmur "milady".

Upon entering the house, Sybil caught sight of Carson, standing stoic and tall as always by the door. He murmured his greetings to them as they entered, but Sybil could see the shimmer of tears in his eyes, tears like hers that had not fallen, and knowing Carson would never fall while he stood in front of others. But she could see his sorrow, and she knew that his heart was breaking, just like hers. She moved past the butler, telling him goodnight, and then squeezed Edith's hand, thanking her sister for the ride, but telling her she needed to go bed right away, that she was exhausted after the events of the day. Edith made no protest, she simply nodded her head in understanding; of course she understood, her day had been hellish too.

Once in her room, Sybil locked the door and gasped for air, before letting her body sag against its surface. God, how her eyes stung. God, how her heart hurt! Trembling hands rose to cover her face, and she silently wept for the loss of the young, brave, and noble footman. For the friend who she feared would never know how dear he was to her. And then she thought of Gwen; sweet Gwen who had promised to visit, Gwen who had been very close to William…and who also had not had the chance to say her goodbyes, either. She bit her lip, feeling the sob rise in her throat at this revelation. And then she thought of Daisy—the poor girl had been a bride for only so many hours…and was now a widow. Oh God, what was Daisy going through? How was Daisy taking all this? She quickly chastised herself for thinking such foolish things. _How would _you_ feel if you were in Daisy's shoes and that had been Branson?_

Sybil froze at the horrible thought.

It had been a nightmare she had been fighting for so many years, ever since the War had started. Branson—lying in a trench, breathing in poison, being shot at, being wounded, and dying in some foreign hospital…away from family, away from friends—away from her.

But now the nightmare was changing. It wasn't the horrible thought of Branson going to War…now it was just that of Branson…dying. And her, having to live without him.

The emotion was too great. The stress from this entire week, cumulating with the events of the day at the hospital, and ending by learning the sad truth of what had taken place at Downton—no, this was too much to bear on one's own.

To hell with what anyone thought. To hell with propriety! She had never been a champion for it anyway. Wiping her cheeks and eyes, she turned, unlocked the door, and slipped back into the corridor. The lights were dim, but it was still possible that her parents or some of the other servants could be awake. She would have to be quiet and careful, and so she slipped down the servant's staircase, ever watchful for the sign of a housemaid coming in the other direction. She heard a few voices every so often; hushed whispers, all murmuring words of sorrow about poor William. She didn't enter the Servant's Hall, for fear that Mrs. Hughes would spot her. Instead, she slipped onto the main floor, where a few nurses were still moving about, holding blankets and pillows, going around and seeing to the officers before the lights were turned out of the night. She was still in her uniform, so she could blend in better amongst the rest of them, should anyone spot her. Carson was still in the great hall, but his back was turned. Before he noticed anything, she slipped through side door that led out to a small garden, one where many of the officers lounged when the weather was pleasant. No one was there now, and a cloud had passed over the moon. It couldn't have been more perfect.

She grabbed a hold of her skirts, and ran. Ran as fast as she could, taking a much longer route to the garage, but she didn't care. She just needed to see him, that was all that mattered. He would understand her sorrow, her grief; she wouldn't have to pretend to feel less than how she felt in front of him. She wouldn't have to worry about any looks of disdain for mourning a man who "wasn't one of her kind". Branson knew she cared for William, he understood that. He knew she thought of William as a friend, and he would understand better than anyone how sad she was that she hadn't had the chance to attend his wedding, as well as being able to say goodbye. And besides all that—she just wanted to see _him_. Because the thought of poor Daisy, sharing William's last name but not having William by her side, was just too much. And Sybil couldn't bear the thought of having to face something like that without Branson—without _Tom_.

She was panting by the time she arrived at the garage. A cramp had formed in her side and she was clutching it. The garage was dark, just as it had been when both she and Edith had returned from the hospital. The car was still there, parked outside. _He's not here…_

He could be inside the house, she supposed. Perhaps he was in the Servant's Hall? Perhaps he was comforting Daisy? That sounded like the sort of thing he would do. Or…perhaps he was in his cottage? _Go knock on his door! And if he's not there, then wait at his doorstep until he does come out!_

She swallowed, remembering the last time she had come to his cottage. Well, in truth, that hadn't been an _actual_ moment, but…but a dream. She remembered that dream so well; that was the day she had given him Persuasion.

She took a deep breath and went around the garage; the cottage was attached on the far side. A candle was burning in the window; it's soft, orange light shining alone in the darkness. Had he gone to sleep?

_I shouldn't be here. I should go. I can find him tomorrow. I'll feign illness. I'll make my apologies to Nurse Daniels and Dr. Clarkson, he'll understand. But I shouldn't be here, I shouldn't wake him up, God knows how hard this has been for him, too!_

But just as she believed he would understand her sorrow, so too did she believe that she understood his. They were so alike…like two halves of one whole. And right now, she desperately needed to see him, perhaps more than any other person in the world.

She knocked on his door, softly, but firmly too.

For the next few seconds, the only sound she could hear was that of her rapidly beating heart…

The door opened.

Sybil held her breath and watched as Branson's face became visible…and then let out a long, shaky breath as his eyes met hers. He opened the door completely then.

No words were spoken. They simply stared at one another. She could see that he had been crying. Like Carson, she saw the tears glistening in his eyes, and like Edith, she saw the stains on his cheeks. No doubt he could tell that she had been crying too, her eyes swollen and pink and puffy. He didn't ask if she had heard about William, he knew. She could tell that he knew. And then…he took a step back, away from the doorframe…and did the one thing she was hoping beyond anything that he would do…

He opened his arms.

And she went straight into them.

A sob escaped Sybil's throat then, as she buried her face against his shoulder. His arms, muscular and strong and so warm, did not hesitate. They came around her and she felt herself being pulled closer to his body. It was exactly what she needed.

Her own arms moved around him too, wrapping tighty around his waist. The palms of her hands spread upon his back, and she grabbed fistfuls of his shirt as the sobs began to wrack her body, causing her to shake and tremble.

"Ssshhhhh…" he murmured into her hair. Oh God, it was the sweetest thing he could say, and it wasn't even a word. She only cried harder because of it, but his hold on her never lessened. She clutched him, crying so hard, crying for William, for Daisy, for Gwen, for Mr. Mason, for everyone who loved him. And then she thought of Matthew, and her sister, and even Lavinia, and she began sobbing for them as well. She thought of Pvt. Quincy, the frightened soldier who in his delirium thought rats were trying to eat him, and poor Lt. Courtney who had lost all hope and saw death as his only escape…she thought of all those who had died, who had lost a loved one, who were afraid of what the future would bring after this long and horrible war. She cried for each and every one of them. And Branson—_Tom_…he simply held her and let her soak his shirt with her tears.

One of his hands rose, and she could feel it gently stroking her hair. It was a tender gesture, and Sybil was grateful for it. His other hand also ran up and down her back…and seemed to make little circles. She found it soothing, and indeed, she could feel herself calming.

It was then that Sybil realized Branson's state. He was…somewhat _undressed_. He wasn't bare-chested, but…the undershirt that he wore clung to his frame, revealing the broad, muscular build that she had always known he had…but it seemed so much more _emphasized_ by this simple garment. In fact, she was very aware of his muscles—how could she not be? His arms were around her, holding her close and…and tight. Her face was buried against his shoulder and her cheek resting on his chest…her ear was so close; she could hear his heartbeat.

Was it her imagination? Or was it beating faster?

…Hers certainly was.

_I should say something,_ she thought_. I should tell him why I came here…although I'm sure he knows. But still, I should say something; I can't just keep my head buried here…although I wish I could. Oh Lord, say something—SAY SOMETHING!_

"I…I'm sorry…" she whispered, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. "…For…for ruining your shirt."

_THAT was what you said?_ Lord, how mortifying.

She almost jumped by the sudden vibration that spread from his chest through his throat. He was chuckling! Oh God, how she could feel her face grow hotter. She felt like an ostrich, and wanted to bury her head in the sand…but the place where her head was buried was _Branson's chest!_ And it was the exact opposite of sand. More like…granite.

"It's alright…" he murmured, and Sybil bit her lip to keep from gasping. His voice sounded so different—his brogue sounded so much…deeper…than before. His hand continued to run up and down her back…and Sybil nibbled on her bottom lip, wondering if she should try and disentangle herself from his embrace…or if she could stay like this for the rest of her life?

_This is what it could be like…_a voice murmured in her head. _Say "yes"; run away with him and you'll never have to know another day without feeling his arms around you. _

Lord, it was tempting. So tempting…

"Branson…"

She didn't even realize she had spoken until his name escaped her lips. It sounded strange, her voice; soft, and low…and breathy.

"Milady?"

_We're past that now, _she reminded herself. _He's said my name; I even encouraged him to say my name when it's just the two of us. _And how strange to sound so formal now…when they were holding each other so intimately.

She closed her eyes, and summoned her courage. "Tom…"

She felt his chest move…as if releasing a long, shaky breath.

"Sybil…"

Tom and Sybil. That was who they were. Not "Branson the Chauffeur", or "Lady Sybil Crawley, youngest daughter to the Earl of Grantham"…but simply, Tom and Sybil.

Tom and Sybil.

His hand, which had been stroking her hair…stilled momentarily. And she could feel his fingers gently tangle in the brown strands. His other hand, the one that had been running up and down her back, moved as well. Slowly up her spine…before it reached her shoulder…and her eyes closed and her breath stopped…as she felt his fingers move to her cheek…and softly ran his knuckles along her skin.

She released her own long, shaky breath.

Slowly…her hands moved from his back…around to his front. Until her palms were pressed against his chest—his broad, muscular chest. She swallowed, and slowly…moved her face away from his chest, from his shoulder…slowly moving it…while one hand remained in her hair and the other continued to caress her cheek...slowly moving it until she her eyes were level with his throat…and slowly moving up…until they reached his own.

Blue–gray met blue-green.

How long they stood like that, looking into one another's eyes…Sybil wasn't sure. The world seemed to have melted all around them. She was aware _him_, and only him. His arms, his hands, his body, his face, his eyes…his lips.

Yes…she was aware of his lips.

Memories of the other day came rushing back. His hand stopping her from leaving, touching her hip…her waist. His eyes boring into hers…and how she couldn't stop her own eyes from moving between his own…and his mouth. _We had nearly kissed, we had nearly kissed_. That was what had occupied a bulk of her diary that night. They had _nearly_ kissed.

But in the end, they hadn't.

And now here they were, again…standing in his darkened cottage, the glow of a single candle, no doubt lit in honor of William, providing the only light around them. And yet it was enough, because she could see his eyes shining back into hers so clearly. And she could see his mouth…his handsome, intoxicating mouth…so close…so close…

They were like magnets.

She couldn't say that one of them moved before the other, because if truth be told…they both seemed to move at the same time, each intending to meet the same goal. Which they did…as her lips met those of Tom Branson's.

Warm. That was the first thing that occurred to her. Tom's lips were warm…and soft. Yes, very warm, and very soft. But firm as well, for he pressed his lips against hers in a firm…yet gentle, kiss.

_I'm kissing Branson…I'm kissing Branson!_ She had never been kissed before! Never! She had received pecks on the cheek and hand, and she remembered how Larry Grey, an odious boy from her past, had once tried to steal a kiss from her lips, but she slapped him so hard that she was sure she left a permanent bruise. But her lips had never known the touch of another…_until this moment._

It was enough to cause her to pull away and gasp for air.

Tom was gasping too, his eyes wide as he realized what had just happened.

_We kissed. Tom Branson just gave me my first kiss. Or…or I just gave my first kiss to Tom Branson. _ Oh Lord, did it matter? She was shaking, literally trembling in his arms. Was he shaking too? Her face felt as if it were on fire! Oh God, surely this wasn't his first kiss, was it? No, she had a feeling that Tom Branson was a favorite amongst the girls back in Ireland. She could imagine many girls trying to steal a kiss or two from young Mr. Branson on the schoolyard or behind the church. How many girls had he kissed? How did she compare? Oh, why was she thinking such things _right now?_

His hand was still on her cheek. Sybil gasped and let out another long, slow, shaky breath, as her eyes slowly lifted to meet his once again. She swallowed and felt her skin flush even more as she met his gaze…hard and intense.

_I should say something_, she thought. But what? Her mind was completely blank…but her eyes were falling to his lips once more, and all those thoughts about kissing suddenly returned. "Tom—"

She gasped…as his mouth moved suddenly and fell over hers once again. Sybil moaned and closed her eyes, giving in to the desires that were pounding in heart. _Yes…yes, kiss me, words are not necessary. Kiss me again, Tom, please…_

And he did. His hands were holding her face, gently, tenderly, his thumbs running over her cheeks while the rest of his fingers tangled in hair, pulling her face closer to his. She couldn't help herself, she found herself moaning against his lips, blushing deeply when she realized that sound had come from her—but he gave her new reasons to blush, when his mouth took advantage of that moan…and his tongue slipped past her lips.

"MmmMMM!" Sybil's eyes actually flew open at the feel of his tongue. It startled her, yes…but it was not unpleasant. No…by _no means_ was it unpleasant. Her eyes fluttered shut again, and she bashfully opened her mouth a little more, gasping as his tongue moved fully into hers.

A warm, deep chuckle resonated from his throat. Sybil knew she was blushing, but also knew he wasn't laughing in jest at her. She had a feeling…he enjoyed making her gasp. Perhaps she could make him gasp? Her tongue moved then and met his…and indeed, she heard a groan come from his throat, as _her tongue_ boldly moved into _his mouth_…and ran the length of his own.

"MMM!" Sybil gasped against his mouth as his hands moved from her head, around her body, grabbing her, clutching her tightly, pulling her even closer to his. His kiss became stronger, deeper…_hungrier_. Her hands were pressed against his chest, imprisoned between their two bodies. She moved them then, and an instinct guided her to wrap them around his shoulders, around his neck, which she did, one hand moving up and tangling with the hairs on the back of neck, pulling his head closer to hers…just as he was pulling her closer to him.

The kiss continued to deepen. Both of them were moaning. Tom's mouth was the experienced one, but he didn't try to overpower her. No, instead he would do something with his lips, with his tongue…and she knew he wanted her to copy him, so that was what she did. He ran his tongue along the roof of her mouth, and she did the same to his. He softly sucked her tongue between his lips, and she did the same to his, causing him to groan deeply and reach out and clutch the edge of a nearby table to keep his balance. She couldn't help but grin at this, and decided to try and do something before he guided her…and took his bottom lip between her teeth and gently sucked it between her lips.

"MMmmmmmmmmMMMMM!" he groaned against her mouth. Yes, she was very pleased with herself for that.

However, he got his revenge. His lips suddenly broke from hers, and Sybil whimpered at their disappearance. However, she gasped when she felt his lips move along her jaw…to her ear. "OH!" she gasped, as his lips found her earlobe…and sucked it between his teeth. "Tom!"

He grinned and held her tighter to him. "Do you like that?" he whispered against her ear, the low vibrations of his brogue causing her toes to curl and her body to melt against his.

"Yes," she gasped, whimpering and wanting more, God help her. He chuckled and answered her plea, his mouth playfully tugging on her earlobe…before moving down her neck, and leaving fiery kisses in his wake.

His hands were also leaving a trail of fire. They had begun to drift down her back…to her rump, and a gasp escaped her lips as she felt his fingers squeeze her backside. "Oooohhh Sybil…" he groaned against her skin, squeezing her rump again and gently nibbling on the flesh of her neck. Another gasp escaped her throat suddenly…as she felt him squeeze her and pull her closer…to something…_hard_.

She may be naïve and ignorant when it came to kissing, but Sybil knew what _that_ was. After all, she had gone to school to train as a nurse, which included several extensive classes on human anatomy, and even though it earned a great deal of blushes and giggles from her fellow students, Nurse Templeton had warned all of them that there may be times while bathing a patient that he could become…"excited". And it certainly seemed that Tom had become…_excited_. The only difference was, when this happened with her patients, Sybil didn't feel anything in return. She did her best to ignore it, and she usually succeeded in doing so. But Tom…Tom she could not ignore. Nor did she want to. And unlike her patients…Sybil _did_ feel something.

…And it frightened her a little.

"Stop," she gasped, blushing deeply and trying to reign in her desires which seemed to have taken control over all her other senses. Her hands gently pushed against his shoulders. "Tom, please stop."

The first time she said stop, he seemed delirious, and was still deliciously kissing her neck. But when she began to gently push at his shoulders and murmured the word a second time, he heard her, and quickly did as she asked, releasing her entirely, causing them both to stumble backwards a bit.

Heavy panting filled the cottage then. Heavy breathing…and racing heartbeats.

She didn't look at him. She wasn't sure if he was avoiding her gaze, or if he was staring right back at her. Was he upset? He had been kissing…so intensely! And…and she had clearly _excited_ him. Was he angry with her for interrupting that? No, no, she didn't believe that. While Tom could be full of himself, he wasn't the sort of man who…who _expected_ something like…like giving her body over to him completely, just for kissing him. No, he wasn't a louse like Major Bryant. Although…the idea of giving her body completely to Branson…did cause a strange shiver to spread through her body.

_I should say something. I asked him to stop, and I owe him an explanation. I don't want him to think awfully of me! And I don't want him to think I didn't enjoy it! I…oh just SAY SOMETHING!_

"I'm sorry—"

"I'm sorry—"

They both paused, realizing they had spoken at the same time. And more than that, they had spoken the same words at the same time.

They stared at each other, both of them blushing brightly in the in the dim candlelight. But before she could open her mouth and try again, he rushed out and spoke first. "I'm sorry for…for letting that happen."

She held her breath.

"I…I apologize, milady."

_Milady?_

"Tom…" his eyes met hers then, and she couldn't help but smile. _I should call him Tom whenever we're alone; that _is_ his name, after all. He has a name. _ "I…I'm not going to stand here and let you take all the blame," she murmured, blushing deeply. "I…I mean, I am just as guilty."

He looked at her, and she wasn't sure what his expression said. "Guilty…" he repeated, and Sybil felt her smile fall.

"Oh no, no, please, you misunderstand! What I mean is…I…I…" what did she mean? "I…_I_ kissed _you_—or…or _we kissed each other_…at the same time…" surely she glowed in the dark by now? Had her face become some bright red beacon? "And…and…I…I've never kissed anyone—"

"Never?"

She blushed and felt that tingle spread at the way his eyes looked at her when she revealed this. "No…" she murmured, blushing brightly. "You…this was my first kiss."

Did a groan just escape his throat? A strange look seemed to fall across his face, one that caused her toes to curl and her legs to weak at the sight. He made a move towards her, but stopped himself, as if some invisible rope had wrapped itself around his waist and was drawing him back.

He straightened his back, and gave a small bow of his head. But she could tell it wasn't done to make fun of her. "I am…I am very honored, milady." Coming from any other man, with those words, she would have thought him mocking her. But not Tom. No…she knew he meant it.

"But…but you should go."

Sybil was startled, however, by those words. Even though she had been thinking it, she was still startled by them. "I should?"

He nodded his head. "Sybil…you know my heart. You know what I want, and it's not just for one night."

Her face grew hot. "I…that's…that's _not_ why I came—"

"I know," he whispered, his hand reaching out, and gently brushing a piece of her hair away from her brow. "But…you have no idea what your sweet revelation means to me…or what it does to me—_is_ doing to me," he added with a blush of his own. "And then…you being here, having the chance to hold you in my arms, and…and feeling your lips for the first time…"

_For the first time_. Did that mean he hoped…there would be more times? Oh God, yes, please! She wanted to experience that again, to feel his lips against hers again…and…and against her neck…and her ears…and then she began imagining where else his lips could go, and she found herself reaching out and gripping a nearby wall to keep her balance.

"I want you, Sybil Crawley…not just for a day or a night or a brief period of time. I want you for the rest of my life. And…and until I know your answer—_your definite, assured answer_—then it's best that you go…because you are the most beautiful temptation—and I know I only have so much strength."

Sybil stared at him, not sure what to say. A part of her, she couldn't deny, felt deeply embarrassed. Did he think her…_wanton?_ No, no, not Tom. He wouldn't think that. He just said that he found her innocent revelation about him being the first man to kiss her, sweet. But then again, perhaps she _was_ wanton? Hadn't the thought of Branson's—_Tom's_ mouth, exploring her…_elsewhere_, excited her?

She also couldn't deny there was a part of her that was a little…offended, by his words. Did he think she had no self-control? Hadn't _she_ been the one who told him to stop? And was he implying that her emotions, her…her kisses…were fickle? Because she hadn't given him a most definite "yes, I will run away with you tomorrow" answer?

No…no, how could she fault him for that? She had just thought he was no louse, and she knew it was true. He wasn't one of those "randy officers"; while it was so easy to give in to his temptations and…and take her body…(and truth be told, if he began kissing her neck like that again, she had a feeling she would be willing to do _anything_)…he was choosing not to. He was being chivalrous, a true gentleman. And…he was also showing some self-respect. Giving in to one's desires and passions was serious, and she felt the same way. But for Tom…he didn't want to do that until he knew that not only did she love him…but that she would be with him, for the rest of their days. That she would be his wife…and he, her husband.

And as much as she wanted to scream "YES!" she knew that she couldn't; at least not yet.

"Alright…" she whispered, with a nod of her head. "I understand."

He looked torn, pained even. Perhaps he was battling the same thoughts she had been? "I want to, Sybil, please know that—"

"I do," she whispered, blushing deeply and lowering her eyes. "And…and there's a part of me that want's that too."

She heard him suck in a breath at her revelation. His hand, which had brushed her hair from her brow and cheek softly fell between them…and took one of her own in his. "And the other part?"

She squeezed his hand, and lifted her eyes. "Is scared…because I've never felt anything like this before."

He nodded his head with understanding…and then lifted the hand he was holding and brushed his lips against her knuckles. A tremble went through her body, as well as the urge to lean into him and lift her face to his lips once more. But by some unknown strength…she resisted.

"Goodnight…Tom," she whispered, taking her hand back after another tender squeeze.

He smiled at her, releasing her fingers. "Goodnight…Sybil."

It wasn't the first time he had said her name. But it had new meaning now. The world had new meaning now.

"Would you like me to escort you back?"

She blushed and couldn't help smiling at his sweet offer. _Just as if we were courting_, she thought. "No, thank you…" she replied. "I snuck out and…and it will be simpler if I go back in on my own."

"Aye," he agreed. "After all, they can't sack you."

She frowned a little at this. Another reminder of the hurdles they needed to overcome. She whispered her goodnights once again, and then quickly turned and left the cottage, telling herself with every stop not to look back, because she knew that if she did…she would probably turn and fly back to his arms, begging him to kiss her again and help her discover all these strange feelings that were coursing through her body.

The Servant's Hall would be empty by now. It was also closer to Tom's cottage. She slipped inside, and then quietly snuck up the servant's staircase until she reached her floor, and like a shadow, quietly slipped down the corridor and then into her room. Only then, did she let out a long shaky sigh.

"Oh God above…" she breathed, her heart racing as her mind deliciously replayed everything that had happened in Branson's cottage. The room suddenly became stuffy…very stuffy, and she moved to her window, opening it wide, breathing in the night air, and lifting her face to the moon which had now emerged from the cloud that had been covering it when she had first snuck out.

She had kissed the man she loved. She had kissed him…and he had kissed her back. And then he kissed her face…her earlobes…her neck…

And he squeezed my rump! She blushed furiously at that memory. But the point was…she and Tom Branson had crossed the first threshold…and she also knew, even though she hadn't told him, that she _would_ be telling him "yes". Before, she had _wanted_ to tell him "yes"…but now, after being held in his arms, after holding him, and especially after kissing him, she knew she _would_ be saying "yes" to all the questions he had asked. It was just of a matter of…when.

Was it right for her to feel like this? Especially after such a dark, wretched day, with such heartbreaking news? She was still sad, yes. She missed William, and she did have regrets and worries. But at the same time…she liked to think that William would support her and Tom's love, maybe even encourage it.

She smiled at that thought. She decided to keep her window open…and then decided to do something similar to Branson, and light a candle in William's memory. She placed the tiny votive on her windowsill and smiled up at the heaven's, before murmuring a soft prayer under her breath. Then, she turned to retreat to her bed, wondering what dreams would await her on this night?

She didn't see the pair of smiling eyes watching her from beneath the willow tree near her window. If she had, she would have blown her admirer a kiss.

* * *

><p><em>THERE YOU GO! They *FINALLY* kissed! Because when Sybil says "Yes you can kiss me but that is all until everything is settled" it just struck me *something* had happened in the past...and so here is my own take! Hope you enjoyed! PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT! Thank you!<em>


	111. Alt Scene: William & Daisy's Wedding

_The following chapter is a little strange, as it's a "Alternate Scene". You know how on DVD's, they sometimes show "alternate scenes" in the special features menu? Well, consider this chapter something like that. Basically, while writing Love's Journey and rewatching past episodes of Downton, it occured to me that it seemed OOC for Branson and Sybil *not* to be present at William and Daisy's wedding. While I do try to stay as close to canon as possible for this particular story, I couldn't shake how "off" it feld to not have the two of them there to witness William and Daisy's marriage. SO...I decided to write an alternative chapter, one that (hopefully!) can easily fit into this story with the other chapters around it, so you can read it as an "additional scene" rather than a "missing scene" (does that make sense?) So basically some things that were mentioned in previous chapters are explored once more, leading up to both Sybil and Branson attending the wedding, and then ends where they both learn about William's death, all leading up to the events that took place at the end of Chapter 110._

_I hope you enjoy this little "alternative scene"! There may be more like it in the future, we shall see! This struck me as the biggest alternative moment in the show, but if another one comes along, I may include it too :o) _

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Eleven<strong>

_Alternate Scene__  
>Daisy and William's Wedding<em>

He was "forbidden" to attend. That was the gist of it, at least. He wasn't indoor staff. He certainly wasn't "upstairs indoor staff", to clarify the difference between the kitchen maids and the rest. And despite his "argument" with Mr. Carson, where he tried to make the butler see reason as a friend of William's, Mr. Carson stood his ground and told him, "_if I make allowances for you, then what do I say to all the others who aren't able to attend?"_

He was furious. Was he being punished, still, for what had happened last summer? No, no, Mr. Carson wouldn't do that, not with something as serious at this. In the butler's eyes, he was trying to maintain order in the midst of tragedy.

…To hell with order.

He had been up half the night, debating about whether to push the issue, to confront Mr. Carson and risk angering him, or to simply "show up" whenever the vicar arrived, and risk causing a scene. He was still debating this when Sybil found him that morning, and then entreated that he drive her to the hospital.

She was clearly distraught, and for the first time since learning about William and Daisy's wedding, he shifted his focus away from his own bitterness and listened intently as she told him about how Mr. Matthew was now aware of his injuries, and what she believed had taken place between him and Miss Swire. He wanted to stop the car and take Sybil in his arms, to comfort her and tell her he would never break her heart like that. He had meant what he had said in his letter he had written to her all those months ago, and what he had told her outside the garage; he would stay at Downton until she was ready to run away with him. That was the truth…the rest truly was, detail.

The conversation shifted then to William and Daisy's impending marriage. Sybil revealed that she hoped she could attend, that she was trying to change shifts with one of the other nurses back at the house just so she could be present if and when Mr. Travis arrived. That was the problem though; no one knew when the vicar would be there. He then revealed his own frustrations about not being "allowed" to attend, feeling a little guilty afterwards for no doubt sounding like a petulant child in the midst of tantrum.

"_You're his friend,"_ Sybil had said. _"And you should be there. I think William would want you to be there."_

Her words remained with him after he returned from the hospital. They remained with him throughout the rest of the day. While he visited William that afternoon, to offer his "celebration toast", the feeling behind those words continued to grow stronger and stronger. _You _should_ be there. William would want you to be there. _And then…when William asked him to help Daisy, to look after her and encourage her to pursue her dreams and never settle…the need to be there, to stand by and witness those vows being murmured, was greater than ever before.

But it all cumulated late that afternoon, after reading a tragic and disheartening article about the Tsar and his family being slaughtered…and after a near kiss with Sybil in the garage.

_"Sometimes a hard sacrifice must be made for a future that's worth having…"_

A future that's worth having.

God knew how badly he wanted that future with Sybil. And Branson knew that despite William's knowledge of his imminent death…he wanted that future, even for just a moment, with his beloved, too.

No. He would not stay away. He was going to be present at William and Daisy's wedding.

"Mr. Branson?"

He had entered the Servant's Hall and Mrs. Hughes looked at him with curious eyes. Late last night he had complained about feeling unwell. The truth was he was having that final debate with himself about what to do. Originally, he had planned on staying in his cottage all day, staying there and feigning illness and being left to sulk in peace. But after everything that had happened, after the conversations with both Sybil and William and the missed opportunity to kiss his beloved, Branson knew he couldn't stay away.

"Could you tell me where Mr. Carson is, Mrs. Hughes?" he politely asked, his expression remaining firm and serious. The housekeeper mutely nodded her head and pointed towards the butler's pantry. Branson thanked her and with a deep breath, quietly knocked on Carson's door.

"Yes?"

He entered, shutting the door behind.

Mr. Carson had been going over the wine ledgers and looked up at him, a little surprised to see him there. "Oh, feeling better Mr. Branson? Mr. Bates had mentioned that you were unwell, hence why we didn't see you last night at supper."

"I'm feeling much better, thank you," he murmured, deciding to keep at least that part of the charade going.

"Well, glad to hear it," Mr. Carson murmured, going back to his task. "I shall keep that in mind, if his Lordship or her Ladyship requests the motor." No doubt in Mr. Carson's eyes, this was the only reason why he had come to the butler's pantry. However, when the butler realized he was still standing there, he put down the ledger and looked up at him with the same curious expression that Mrs. Hughes had worn when he entered the Servant's Hall. "Is there something else?"

"Aye," Branson sighed, taking a deep breath and lifting his chin. "Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Carson, but I wanted to let you know that…that I will be attending William's wedding this afternoon, or whenever Mr. Travis is able to come."

A long pause filled the room, and Branson couldn't tell what the butler was thinking, his expression was surprisingly unreadable. Mr. Carson tapped his fingers upon the surface of his desk, as if trying to decide what to do about this "unruly" lad standing before him, or at least that was how it seemed in Branson's eyes. Finally, the man spoke. "I was truly hoping the subject was closed after our last conversation on the matter, Mr. Branson…"

"I understand, Mr. Carson, I do—"

"Do you?" the butler countered. "Because if that were so, then why are you standing here, threatening to disobey a very strict rule?"

_Threaten?_ Branson reminded himself not to lose his temper; he wouldn't get anywhere by doing that.

"I understand why the rule was made," Branson replied, his hands firmly clasped behind his back as if he were addressing a military general. "But I do disagree with it."

Now he could see Mr. Carson's emotions on his face. His brows were furrowed and it was obvious the man was bristling. "Well…it doesn't matter whether you agree with me or not, sir," he muttered. "Only that you obey!"

"With all due respect, Mr. Carson…I'm afraid I can't."

"CAN'T?" the butler thundered, rising from his chair, his hands pounding hard on the surface of his desk. "Or…_won't?"_

Branson stood his ground. "You said so the other night, Mr. Carson, that you understood William and myself to be good friends. And that is true. In some ways—many ways, actually—William reminds me of my younger brother, Frank. And…and that is how I've come to see him, as a younger brother."

Carson's frown softened slightly. But only slightly. "This is an emotional time, Mr. Branson, for all of us. But as I told you last night, that if I make allowances for you—"

"Forgive me, Mr. Carson, but I'm not seeking your permission."

The butler bristled again. "Now see here, Mr. Branson. I will not have you causing some kind of 'political protest' on this day, in this house, and with what very well may happen before the day is over!"

"Would you deny me admittance if I gave you my notice?"

Mr. Carson stared at him as if he had gone mad. Perhaps he had? This was certainly not something he had planned to say ahead of time! But he refused to show his own surprise for the words that he had uttered and stood his ground, lifting his chin and locking his jaw.

"Are you…" Carson was sputtering. "Have you…have you _completely_ gone mad?"

"No sir," he shook his head. "I have told you that I will be attending William's wedding. But, I can understand after what happened last summer, if you don't trust me and fear I will cause some sort of…protest. Therefore, I am prepared to hand in my notice if needs be; to show you how serious I am about being there. But whether I am still an employee of Downton or not…I _will_ be there, Mr. Carson."

"Of course you will be, lad."

Both Branson and Mr. Carson turned towards the door, neither one of them having realized that Mrs. Hughes was standing there until she spoke. How long had she been there? How much had she heard? _Enough, apparently._

Mrs. Hughes shut the door behind her and kept her eyes locked with those of Mr. Carson, whose face resembled that of a radish with how red it was growing by the second. "I mean, you will need to fetch Mr. Travis from the church, when the time comes," she explained. Mr. Carson opened his mouth, no doubt to protest, but she continued. "And…you might as well stay in the room, while he performs the ceremony, so you can be ready to take him back, when the time is right."

Branson did everything in his power to keep from smiling. God bless Mrs. Hughes. And truly, if anyone had power in winning over Mr. Carson, it was her.

"Now, no more of this nonsense about 'handing in one's notice'," she sighed. "No need to be dramatic, Mr. Branson."

"Aye," he coughed, trying to keep his stern expression. "Forgive me."

She nodded her head, and turned a smiling face to Mr. Carson, who was still bristling, and beet red, but who hadn't said anything to contradict her. "Well…best be off, lad. You need to be ready to fetch Mr. Travis as soon as the Dowager Countess sends word."

"Aye," he said with a bow of his head, before quickly exiting the pantry. He didn't look back, nor did he linger to hear any conversation between the housekeeper and the butler. He had no doubt he would receive a stern lecture later, when Mrs. Hughes wasn't there to defend him or speak for him, but that was fine. He would endure a thousand lectures from Mr. Carson if it meant standing by and seeing William wed his sweetheart.

* * *

><p>She was having little success. No, no, that wasn't right. Having little success meant that there was a <em>slight chance<em> that things would work out. Sybil was not having little success…she was having _no success_. No success whatsoever, in finding someone to take her place at the hospital so she could be at the house, in case Mr. Travis arrived to perform the ceremony.

_He could be there right now_, she found herself worrying. _William and Daisy could be saying their vows to each other right now…and I'm missing it._

No, no, this wasn't about her. She needed to remind herself that. And yet, despite how selfish it sounded, she longed to be there, she wanted to be there, to witness William and Daisy's marriage and be a part of that celebration, despite the sad conclusion that was inevitable. _He's my friend…and…and my place is there._

She never felt more sure of this since the previous day, when she had gone to the garage to tell Branson about Mary's train, and he had revealed what had happened to the Tsar…and what had nearly happened between the two of them.

They had almost kissed. They had _almost_ kissed!

One minute they were talking about what had happened to the Tsar, and the next they were…they were arguing! She couldn't even remember what the argument was about (something do with her politics; for not continuing the fight for the vote). She remembered being angry with him at the time, angry that he would bring that up of all things, and she was just so exhausted after everything that was happening, that she couldn't handle such an argument, so she was prepared to leave, to walk away in anger—when he stopped her by reaching forward…and touching her hip and waist.

Time froze then…and he murmured something about…about hard sacrifices needing to be made for a future that's worth having.

…And then she swayed, closer and closer…so close that all it would take was for her to tilt her head up…

But her fear got the better of her. And she ran away before her desire completely took control of her senses. At the time, it had seemed like the right thing to do. But now, she felt deep regret.

That feeling of regret didn't disappear as she continued through her shift at the hospital. Mary had returned to see Matthew, and while Sybil longed to hear their conversation, she kept her distance…but she did observe how attentive her sister was being to their cousin, the way she sat and listened to him…and the way she held a basin for him while he was sick. Before the War, Sybil would never have believed her sister capable of doing what she was doing for Matthew; holding a bowl for him while he was sick, rubbing his back and not even flinching or pinching her nose. But there she was…doing those things, being the attentive nurse, the…the loving companion…

Sybil's heart ached at the sight. It ached for Mary and Matthew and yes, even for Lavinia. Because even if Matthew made things right with one of them, _someone_ would still be left with a broken heart. And who knows if that would even happen; they _all_ may be left with a broken heart. Oh Lord, would she be left with a broken heart, too? She fought the tears that threatened to fall, retreating to the hallway outside, and gasped at the sight of her cousin Isobel.

She was holding a bedpan at the time and nearly dropped it when her eyes met those of Matthew's mother. And then…just…sudden relief washed over her. She put the bedpan aside and rushed to her cousin, throwing her arms around the woman and embracing her tightly. The tears she had been fighting began to fall, but Sybil didn't care. Somehow, with Isobel's return, things just…felt right again. At least to a point.

Naturally her cousin wanted to see Matthew, so Sybil didn't hesitate and directed Isobel to where he lay. She watched with tear-stained cheeks and tear-filled eyes as Isobel made her way across the room, pausing to murmur greetings to Mary who was removing the basin in which Matthew vomited. And she knew then, as she watched mother and son reunite once more, that life was much, much too short to let fear rule one's heart.

So she would face the consequences in the morning. She would face Nurse Daniels and Dr. Clarkson's lectures and censure; but she would do so without regret.

She removed her apron and headscarf, and without another moment's thought…ran out the hospital doors, and began moving quickly back to Downton.

* * *

><p>He knew the way to William's bedroom, so upon arriving with the vicar, he led the way to where the Dowager Countess, Lady Edith, Mr. Mason, and the rest of his friends and colleagues were waiting. He even held the door for the vicar, who if truth be told, did not look happy or pleased to be there, but who grudgingly muttered a "thank you" as he entered the room, before putting on a smile for the benefit of the company there.<p>

Branson didn't care if the vicar didn't like what he was about to do. He didn't care if Mr. Travis had prejudices or misgivings about the whole affair or the reasons behind it. All that mattered was that he fulfill William's dying wish. And while he had meant what he had said, about not causing any sort of "protest", a protest would be caused, if the man tried to leave that room before performing his duty. He had a feeling Old Lady Grantham would support him on this.

As Mr. Travis exchanged greetings with everyone assembled, Branson looked up…and nearly stumbled at the sight of Sybil.

_She's here! _How…how had this happened? It was the first time he had seen her since yesterday, since their…argument…in the garage. Immediately he felt his palms grow sweaty and he tried to wipe them on the surface of his trousers, all the while nervously gripping his chauffeur's cap. She had managed to make it! He knew Sybil had been worried that her shift from the hospital would somehow keep her away; he remembered how she had told him on the drive yesterday that she was desperately trying to find someone to switch shifts with, so she could be present whenever the wedding took place. And there she was…

"Tom…"

Branson's attention snapped to William, whose voice sounded so weak, but whose call had been so determined. Mr. Mason had been standing beside William, and quietly, but reluctantly, stepped aside so he could lean over and hear whatever it was that William had to say. "I'm here…"

William smiled and reached forward, his hand seeking his. Branson gripped it right away and looked into the younger man's eyes. "Will…will…will you…" he stammered a bit, but finally managed to get the words out. "Will you be…my best man?"

A sound escaped Branson's throat then; he wasn't sure what it was, but he knew enough not to trust his voice. He nodded, feeling both humbled and honored by the request, and then moved to stand against the wall, near the bed's headboard, while Mr. Travis took his place on the far side of William's bed. Branson kept his eyes focused on his clasped hands; he was desperately trying to keep his tears at bay.

The door opened then. Everyone turned to face it, and Branson saw smiles pass over the lips of everyone as Mr. Carson entered the room…with Daisy on his arm.

She looked very pretty. Images of walking Kathleen down the aisle on her wedding day, so many years ago, came back to him. He remembered beaming at his sister, feeling so proud and honored to be the man whose arm she leaned upon while he walked with her down that long, church aisle, taking her to Sean, to her future. That had been Christmas of 1914. That summer, he had made the discovery that he was in love with Lady Sybil Crawley. And as he walked with Kathleen, smiling down at her as they passed pews filled with the beaming faces of friends and family, and as he looked ahead towards his future brother-in-law, who was staring at Kathleen with love and amazement…Branson found himself wondering, _will that ever be me? Will I one day be standing where Sean is…and looking at my beautiful bride with the same wonder?_ It seemed so impossible at the time, but he made a prayer then that yes, yes he would be…and that his bride would be Lady Sybil.

This was a very different sort of wedding. They were not in a church, there were not pews filled people, and the joy and exhilaration that could be felt around the church for Sean and Kathleen was replaced with a bittersweet solemnness. The bride did not wear a long, flowing gown with a sheer veil…but Daisy did look very, very pretty. Her hair was curled in a very fancy way (no doubt thanks to Anna), she wore a very pretty dress, as well as some make-up, and she carried a small bouquet of flowers. She looked nervous…very nervous…but she took William's outstretched hand and managed to give the lad a smile, which brought on a loving, tender smile from the groom.

Branson took a deep breath and glanced around the room. Lady Edith was standing by Old Lady Grantham, her hand lightly touching the woman's shoulder, as she gripped a handkerchief in preparation. Mr. Carson did not meet his gaze, but that didn't matter; he went and stood beside Mrs. Hughes, and around them stood Anna, Bates, the new maid Jane, Thomas and Miss O'Brien, and of course, Mrs. Patmore.

…And Sybil.

She stood behind them all, her hands folded in front of her, her head bowed as if in prayer. She still wore her nurse's uniform, but her head was freed from her headscarf, and there was a pretty pink flush to her cheek. He felt the corners of his lips move up as he gazed at her from across the room. He was glad she was here. He was glad they were both here.

"Well…" Mr. Travis cleared his throat. "Shall we?"

And with that, the vicar began.

* * *

><p>Her sister and grandmother had been surprised to see her enter the room, but they didn't question her presence. Sybil immediately moved to a far corner, knowing that more would be arriving, and not long after she had done this, did she see Anna, Bates, and all the others enter the room. She smiled at Anna, but didn't say anything. Instead, she turned her focus once again to William, who gave her a weak smile, but she could tell by the look in his eyes that he was glad she could be there. A sudden thought dawned on her then; <em>the last wedding the two of us attended was Gwen's…<em>

How different these two weddings would be. And yet…Sybil was glad she was here to witness it, even though her heart was already breaking.

Mr. Travis arrived then. Sybil looked up and felt her cheeks turn pink as Branson held the door open for the vicar. Mr. Travis shuffled inside, murmuring some greeting to her grandmother, before moving to the other side of William's bed, murmuring pleasantries to both William and Mr. Mason, while going about his task of preparing for the ceremony. Sybil swallowed the lump in her throat as she met Branson's gaze. _So he was able to make it after all._ She knew that he had been "forbidden" to attend, not being "upstairs indoor staff". She wondered how, exactly, he had managed to convince Carson into letting him attend? Perhaps it helped the fact that he had driven Mr. Travis to the house? She bit her lip and recalled the last time they had spoken to one another…and what had all taken place…and _nearly_ had taken place. She looked down at her hands, unsure if she trusted herself. Even though all eyes were gazing at William, including those of her grandmother and sister, Sybil didn't want to give anything away by staring too long…and too longingly…at the chauffeur.

William murmured Branson's name, and Sybil glanced up from beneath her lashes as he bent near the former footman…and was asked to serve as best man. A strange sound came out of Branson's throat, but Sybil understood it very well. Her hand lifted then and she found herself gripping the fabric of her uniform near her heart. She also felt hot tears fill her eyes and blur her vision, and she quickly looked away before they began to fall.

The bride entered shortly thereafter. Carson brought Daisy into the room, and a soft murmur of adoration was heard by those present. Indeed, Daisy looked very, very pretty, and she bit her lip to keep from crying as she watched the small kitchen maid take William's hand as Mr. Travis began the ceremony.

"Dearly beloved…"

As Mr. Travis spoke, Sybil kept her eyes down, firmly locked with those of her clasped hands. She told herself it was because she didn't want to cause a scene with her crying, even though she knew others around her were crying or tearing up. She could hear the distinct sniffles of her grandmother only a few feet away.

Anna stood just next to her…and Sybil noticed out of the corner of her downturned eye…Anna's hand move to that of Bates'. The two clasped hands, their fingers interlocking…and Sybil suddenly recalled the times she and Branson had held hands. None stood out to her as much as that time at the garden party. She remembered how wonderful it felt, to hold his hand, to feel his fingers weave and lock with hers…and she recalled the other day, the two of them in the garage…and how close they were…how, very, _very_ close they were to kissing…

"…To have and to hold from this day forward…"

She glanced up as she heard the vows begin. Sybil swallowed the lump in her throat and watched as William caressed Daisy's small hand. But her eyes didn't stop there…they continued to rise…and they locked with another pair of eyes from across the room.

"…For better for worse…for richer for poorer…in sickness and in health…to love and to cherish…"

_I do._ The words rang loud and clear in her mind. _ Yes, yes, I do, I will! _How could she refuse him? How could she refuse her heart? She was terrified, yes, terrified of this unknown future they would face…but at least she wouldn't be facing it alone. Could she do it? Did she have the courage to make a stand…tonight if need be, and declare to her family that she was not only in love with the chauffeur, but that she wanted to marry him?

"…Until we are parted by death…"

Sybil felt numb as Mr. Travis murmured these last few words. Her eyes were brought back to William and Daisy and she felt the hot tears spill forth. They will be parted by death far sooner than they should be. _No, no, it wasn't right, it wasn't fair_. She couldn't imagine the idea of being a bride one minute…and then a widow the next. It was just too, too painful.

…And it was extremely painful to imagine losing Branson—_Tom_, as Daisy was losing William.

And yet…if she and her beloved Irishman were in the same situation, Sybil knew she would be doing the same as Daisy; she would be standing beside Branson's bedside, holding his hand, and repeating the vows Mr. Travis was reading.

The thought caused her tears to flow even harder.

A ring was put on Daisy's finger. More words were murmured…and then Mr. Travis gave a blessing…and Daisy bent her head to kiss William.

A soft applause went around the room, despite Carson's disapproving frown. Yet Sybil knew it wasn't her imagination; even the grim-faced butler had tears in his eyes. What person in that room didn't?

Carson cleared his throat then, and everyone knew it was a sign to leave William and Daisy in peace. Sybil wouldn't fault them that—they deserved every moment they had. Her eyes moved once more to Branson's…and he had turned his gaze back to William, and was shaking his hand, no doubt offering congratulations, but Sybil could see how his body was trembling, as if trying to desperately keep hold of his emotions. Mrs. Hughes led the way out of the room, and the others filed behind her. Sybil took up the rear, while her grandmother blew her nose and summoned Mr. Travis to her side. She looked at Edith and gave her sister a sad, caring smile. Edith squeezed her hand, and Sybil whispered her thanks for watching William. How she wished she could remain a little longer; how she wished she could congratulate the newly married couple and offer them every joy and blessing under the sun. But she didn't trust her voice right now, and had a feeling she would become a blubbering mess if she tried. So she followed the staff out the door…but only stopped short, as a hand grabbed hold of hers, and gave it a squeeze.

She didn't have to look up into his blue-green eyes to know it was his hand. But she did.

It was only a moment. Very fleeting. But it was enough. And she returned the squeeze before reluctantly releasing his fingers…and following Anna out the door, before Carson who was holding it, could become suspicious.

* * *

><p>Mr. Travis didn't linger for very long. After a brief conversation with the Dowager Countess, and a few words with Mr. Mason, he was ready to leave. So he drove the vicar back to the church in silence. He knew he should return the car at once; he was on enough thin ice with Mr. Carson, he didn't need to make it worse. And yet…he found himself driving to Ripon, where the Catholic Church lay. While he doubted God cared which house of worship a person went to, to offer up a prayer, he at least knew his way around a Catholic church, and so in there he went. Only a few people were inside, and he immediately went to a small altar and lit a candle. He paused…and then lit two candles. One for William…and one for Martin.<p>

He prayed, then. For how long, he wasn't sure. Long enough for his knees to feel numb from the kneeler; long enough for his legs to have a slight cramp. But he didn't care. He crossed himself and rose to his feet, before exiting the church and returning the car.

No one seemed to have noticed his absence. And if anyone was upset by it, they didn't say. He stayed in the garage for a long time, trying to concentrate on some job or another, but all the while wondering if Sybil would come to him. As night approached, he decided to join the others for supper; now was not the time to be by one's self. Many of them, Anna, Bates, Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore, stayed up quite late, long after the final tasks of the evening had been finished. They sat around the table in the Servant's Hall, sipping tea in silence, listening to the clock in the corridor chime the hour. It was sometime well after midnight, that Mrs. Hughes announced they should all go to bed.

…And it was sometime in the middle of the next day…that William passed away.

It was Mr. Carson of all people, who came and told him. He was in the garage again, when the news was brought. The butler muttered something about his Lordship granting them all permission to wear black arm bands for the rest of the week, and that funeral arrangements would soon be made. Whenever the funeral took place, the entire staff would have the day off.

Branson knew this was going to happen, that William was going to die. They all knew. And yet…it _still_ stunned him. He thanked Mr. Carson for the information, and after the butler had left, retreated to his cottage and locked the door.

_Now_ he would feign illness for the rest of the day. But really, was it a lie? With shaky fingers, he took paper and pen, knowing that someone needed to tell her, to inform Gwen about this horrible tragedy. But writing to his friend about what had occurred seemed too much, too soon. So instead, he wrote to a ghost, because ghosts are good at listening.

* * *

><p>Now, more than ever, she was grateful she had gone to the wedding. But that didn't mean her heart hurt any less. She was pacing her room, wiping tears from her eyes, recalling the ceremony, recalling the thoughts that had been flying through her head as she gazed across the room at William and Daisy…and at Branson.<p>

Branson.

_Tom_.

_"…To have and to hold from this day forward…f__or better for worse…for richer for poorer…in sickness and in health…to love and to cherish…"_

She bit her lip and clutched her heart as she thought of the last words to those vows…

_"…Until we are parted by death."_

"I _have_ to see him," she whispered to herself. Not only would he understand her sorrow, but after witnessing everything they had witnessed the previous day, and after the words he had spoken to her in the garage…about how sometimes hard sacrifices needed to be made for a future that's worth having…she knew she couldn't wait until morning. Because…because she wanted _that future_. And she didn't want to live a life ruled by fear, not anymore.

She loved him. So deeply. And even though she had no idea what she would say to him when she saw him…she just knew…she had to see him, now…before fear tried to get the better of her again.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading and despite the sadness, hoped you enjoy! The next chapter will deal with Gwen's visit, William's funeral, and the "aftermath" of that kiss...<em>


	112. Gwen's Visit

_Sorry about the lateness of this chapter; my muse decided to take a vacation and then took me for a hostage with this special fic I'm writing just for the holiday season, called Love (and Downton) Actually, which as you may guess from the title is a hybrid of Downton Abbey and one of my favorite Christmas movies, "Love Actually". It's a multi-ship story, so there's something in it for everyone...AND I can promise you a very delicious storyline for our favorite English suffragette and Irish socialist. _

_BUT, onto this chapter...which is unique in it's own way. This chapter deals with William's funeral, as well as the aftermath of Sybil and Branson's kiss. BUT ALSO it's told from the POV of a character that is *not* Sybil or Branson. So for all you Gwen fans out there, I hope you enjoy this o) AND THANK YOU for your patience and continuing to stick with this story, despite my absence from it. I'm still going to try and update it during December as well, so keep coming back! And without further ado..._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Twelve<strong>

The bus came to a stop in the middle of the village square. She remembered taking it on a few occasions with Mrs. Hughes for special errands in Ripon or Malton. However, this was the first time she had ever ridden the bus all the way from her current home back to Downton. And it was also the first time she had ever ridden the bus with two squeamish and somewhat unruly toddlers in tow. Yes, the ride felt extra-long because of that, and both she and her husband received a few "frosty" glares from some of their fellow passengers. So when the bus finally arrived at their destination, she couldn't deny she was grateful for the ride to be over.

Holding her son in one hand (who was wriggling more than ever) she tried to get her suitcase, while her husband tried to do the same while holding their daughter.

"Allow me."

Gwen whirled around when a hand snuck past her to take the suitcase…and a smile burst forth on her face as she took in the sight of her dear friend.

"Welcome to Downton, Mrs. Warren," he grinned.

"TOM!" she laughed, forgetting the suitcase and throwing her free arm around him, giggling as he returned the hug.

"Ta!" little Tommy gurgled, his arms reaching out for the Downton chauffeur, as if he remembered the man who had tossed him up in the air when he visited last.

"Ta! Ta!" Annie echoed, also wriggling against her father's chest, wanting to be held in her adoptive uncle's arms.

"All in good time," Branson promised, taking both suitcases. "Good to see you again, Edward," he smiled warmly at Gwen's husband.

Edward returned the smile and both he and Gwen quickly exited the bus, which didn't waste any time in driving away as soon as it was rid of its passengers. "Well, I think it's safe to say that we won't be missed," Edward muttered in her ear. Gwen only nodded her head in agreement.

"Well, let's get your cases to your room and then I'll take you somewhere where you not have been missed, but you will warmly welcomed back with open arms."

Gwen smiled at this and nodded her head, following her friend as he led the way to the Grantham Arms, where they would be keeping a room for the next two nights. It was strange, being back in Downton Village. Strange to imagine coming back to the big house, the first time in four years! She was both nervous and excited; would anyone recognize her? Did Tom mean what he said, that there were people who missed her and were looking forward to her return? She was very excited about seeing Anna again, as well as Mr. Bates, Daisy, Mrs. Patmore…even Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes. And she was very excited to see Lady Sybil once more. But despite all her excitement and happiness at the thought of being reunited with old friends…Gwen knew there was a bitter sweetness to this visit.

She was here to join her friends and former colleagues in mourning the loss of William.

* * *

><p>The second she had walked through the servant's entrance, Gwen was engulfed with warm greetings and even warmer hugs by Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Patmore, and especially Anna. Thomas and O'Brien were in the background, skulking as they usually did (some things apparently hadn't changed, despite Thomas' lack of footman livery), but she gave them no mind, and smiled at all her friends and telling them over and over how good it was to see them again.<p>

The attention then shifted to the tall, lean man by her side, and she quickly introduced everyone to Edward, who Anna remembered very well and shook his hand, before introducing him to her own significant other, Mr. Bates. But that attention only lasted a few short minutes…before suddenly it was all lavished upon the two squirming toddlers who were looking up at all the unfamiliar faces with curious and slightly cautious expressions.

"OH! Look at these precious wee lambs!" Mrs. Hughes gushed, her hands cupping the slightly chubby cheeks of both Annie and Tommy. Gwen grinned and proudly introduced the children to everyone present, even Thomas and Miss O'Brien, who merely gave a forced smile.

"Annie," she whispered into the little girl's ear. "This is the nice lady to whom you're named after."

"Oh Gwen!" Anna gasped, smiling at the sweet little girl. "Oh, she's lovely!"

Annie seemed to recognize Anna as someone she could like and trust, and reached out to the housemaid who, after being given Gwen's permission, immediately lifted the child up into her arms to cradle against her side. "Very lovely," Mr. Bates murmured by Anna's side. "She looks just like you, Gwen."

"Cursed with my ginger looks," Gwen sighed, but it was more for show. Edward was always telling her how much he loved her red hair, and how he adored her freckles.

"And this little scalawag has been cursed with my name," Tom announced, coming up behind Gwen and hoisting Tommy up into his arms. The boy let out a wild laugh full of joy, which immediately was met by his sister's insistance that she have her turn of being swung into the air.

"Here now, what's all this commotion?" boomed a loud, deep voice that Gwen remembered all too well. She even found herself stiffening at the sound as she had done back in her days of service.

"We have a guest, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes announced, stepping between him and the two children. The last thing that was needed was for Tommy and Annie to burst into tears.

"Guest?" Mr. Carson frowned and looked past the housekeeper, and met Gwen's eyes.

"Hello, Mr. Carson," she greeted, somewhat timidly.

"Gwen?" his face softened slightly as he made the realization to who she was. Had she changed that much in the time she had been here last?

"Yes, dear Gwen, remember?" Mrs. Hughes continued. "And this is her husband, Mr. Warren, and their children…" she smiled at twins, who were now staring wide-eyed at the butler who no doubt resembled a giant from a fairytale.

Carson quietly approached, looking down at the twins with what seemed to be trepidation. However, his stern expression and creased brow quickly melted, as little Annie (who was still being held in Anna's arms) reached forward to touch his somewhat large nose.

"I think she likes you, Mr. Carson," Mr. Bates murmured, and a soft chuckle went around the room.

"Well…she has good taste," Mr. Carson replied, which was a surprising thing to hear coming from the butler's lips. He didn't normally make jokes, at least not to Gwen's recollection. "May I?" he asked. Gwen smiled and nodded her head, and Anna carefully placed the child in Mr. Carson's arms. Annie gave a delighted squeal, and instantly her brother began to squirm with jealousy.

"Looks like you've been replaced," Gwen whispered in Tom's ear. He only laughed and shook his head. However…all the laughter in the room quickly died away…when a new figure entered.

Gwen looked across the room at the kitchen maid, who seemed to have grown a bit since she had seen her last, but whose eyes seemed hollow and lost. "Hello, Daisy."

Daisy squinted a bit, as if she didn't realize who was speaking to her. Then her eyes widened as realization finally dawned. "Gwen?"

Gwen nodded her head, offering a sad smile, and before anything else could be said further, came towards her and gave the small maid a hug. Daisy returned the embrace, but it was cold and stiff; not that Gwen could blame her. "It's good to see you again," she whispered into Daisy's ear.

Daisy mutely nodded, before turning and exiting the room without saying anything further.

"Poor girl," Mrs. Hughes whispered, sadly.

"Well, what do you expect?" Mrs. Patmore muttered, her tone sounding rather defensive. "She's only just lost her husband."

Gwen instinctively reached behind her then, and was glad to feel Edward's loving hand take hold of hers and squeeze her fingers. When Tom's letter had arrived, telling her about William's "deathbed wedding", and how he had passed away the following day…she ran straight into her husband's arms and didn't let him go until at least the following morning; she couldn't imagine a life without him.

"What time is the service?" Edward asked, reading Gwen's thoughts. She was grateful he had asked, because she honestly wasn't sure she could trust her voice.

"Tomorrow, at eleven o'clock," Mr. Carson informed.

"Her Ladyship has been very kind and has given us the day off," Mrs. Hughes explained. "We'll be having a luncheon back here—I hope all of you can join us?"

Gwen smiled and nodded her head. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

A moment of silence passed, save for the two squirming toddlers who were gurgling their own language. Anna then moved to Gwen's side and nudged her elbow. "Would you like to see your old room?"

A smile washed over her face and she giggled at the thought. If truth be told, she would very much like to have a look through the entire house. She had read in so many letters from both Tom and Sybil about how Downton had become a convalescent home, that it was almost hard to imagine the enormous manor being anything but an aristocratic home. So yes, she would very much like to see the "glorious transformation", but she had a feeling, no matter how nicely she asked either Mr. Carson or Mrs. Hughes, that she would not be allowed.

"GWEN?"

Everyone in the Servant's Hall froze as a voice was heard crying out from the top of the servant's staircase. Gwen held her breath as the small crowd of servants parted…and she let out a happy smile as her eyes met those of a woman, in her nurse uniform, and who had been much more than a lady she had once served…but who had become a very dear friend.

"OH GWEN, IT _IS_ YOU!"

Lady Sybil thrust the tray she was holding onto a nearby table, and came rushing towards her, not caring who was there or how they would react at seeing the youngest daughter of the Earl of Grantham embrace a former servant, which was exactly what she was doing. Gwen hadn't even had the chance to open her mouth and greet Lady Sybil warmly, before Lady Sybil had enfolded her in a tight embrace of sheer joy.

"MILADY!" Gwen giggled, trying to free her arms just enough to return the hug.

Lady Sybil didn't seem to care, she was just so happy, that she hugged Gwen only tighter. Gwen glanced out of the corner of her eye and saw Mr. Carson frowning (just slightly) and Mrs. Hughes trying to look stern, but in her eyes it was clear she found the scene quite moving. She had no idea how Tom was looking, as her back was to him at the moment. But she had an idea…because Lady Sybil was blushing very deeply when she pulled away, and her eyes were darting to the chauffeur just over Gwen's shoulder.

"Oh goodness, Gwen, it is so good to see you again, I've missed you dreadfully!" Lady Sybil gasped, trying to turn her focus away from Tom.

Gwen smiled and squeezed Sybil's hands. "It's good to be back, milady."

Lady Sybil frowned at the title, but Gwen knew that so long as Mr. Carson and others were hovering nearby, she couldn't call Sybil simply "Sybil" without raising an arched eyebrow of disapproval—even if she didn't work there anymore.

"When did you arrive?" Lady Sybil asked. "Oh gracious, did you take the train? I wish someone had told me, I would have gone to the station myself—"

"They took the bus, milady," Tom interrupted. Lady Sybil looked at him and Gwen noticed, once again, how her friend flushed brightly. She turned her head just slightly, and noticed the intense way he was holding Lady Sybil's gaze. "I met them in the square, and brought them to the house."

Mr. Carson's frown deepened. "I hope you had his Lordship's permission in taking the motor down to the village square for such—"

"Oh hush, Mr. Carson!" Mrs. Hughes groaned. "It's not as if he went joyriding to York."

Everyone bit their lips to keep from laughing, especially as Mr. Carson puffed his chest up and bristled at the housekeeper's accusatory tone.

"I'm glad you took the motor, Branson," Lady Sybil murmured, her eyes meeting his for a moment and then quickly adverting them before anyone could notice how pink her cheeks had become. Although, it hadn't been missed on Gwen. "OH!" Lady Sybil gasped, smiling at the children. "Oh gracious, forgive me, I—"

Gwen smiled. "Not at all, milady; this is Annie and Tommy," she grinned, and then reached for Edward's hand and gave it a squeeze. "And you remember my husband, Edward?"

"Of course," Lady Sybil smiled, reaching to shake Edward's hand.

"A pleasure to meet you again, milady."

"Oh please, none of this 'milady' business," Lady Sybil groaned, once again not caring how Mr. Carson or any other reacted to her free speaking. "Sybil Crawley, and it's an honor to have you all here!" she smiled at the children and reached out to touch their dimpled cheeks. Little Tommy, who was back in his father's arms, reached forward, wanting desperately to be held. Both Annie and Tommy loved being held by new people.

"Oh, he's a handsome fellow!" Lady Sybil grinned. "May I?"

"Of course, milady," Edward smiled, passing the boy onto her. Gwen smiled at the sight of her friend holding her son…and glanced out of the corner of her eye at Tom, who was watching the sweet sight with intense eyes and from the look of it…hallowed breath.

Yes, it certainly seemed that Lady Sybil had a gift when it came to winning the hearts of men named "Tom".

* * *

><p>"Oh I wish you had let me speak to Papa about setting up a room for all of you; I don't care if you were a former housemaid; you are a guest, and visiting for a very important reason—you should have the finest room in the entire house!"<p>

Gwen smiled at Lady Sybil's righteous indignation; some things would never change. "The room we have at the Grantham Arms is a very nice room, and very spacious; besides, Annie and Tommy can be a handful, especially at night. I don't think the officers here would appreciate being woken in the middle of the night by two screaming toddlers."

"Perhaps," Lady Sybil reluctantly agreed. "But I'm sure those little ones would put a smile on any officer's face. Oh Gwen, they are dear!"

She laughed, but shook her head. "You wouldn't be saying that if you had to wake up seven times in the night to calm them from crying. And it wouldn't be so bad if they could just cry at the same time! But they never do; as soon as one calms down, the other begins wailing…" she sighed. "I love my children, very much—but I must confess, there are times when I find myself dreaming of the day they're older and have outgrown this phase!"

"Careful there," Lady Sybil warned, a mischievous gleam in her eye. "Or they may grow up to become rebellious and political and do 'outlandish' things, such as sneak around on muddy country lanes with housemaids."

Gwen couldn't help but laugh at the thought. "There are worse things—although you may be onto something, milday; after all, I did name my son after Tom."

Lady Sybil giggled again, but Gwen hadn't missed her dark blush. They were wandering around the house, Lady Sybil showing Gwen how it had all been transformed from grand estate to a convalescent home for officers. She was amazed to the say the least, that Lady Sybil, along with Mrs. Crawley's help, had managed to do all this. But then again, as she recalled Tom saying to her once, Lady Sybil was capable of surprising everyone…and doing great, great things.

"It seems strange, doesn't it?" Lady Sybil murmured.

Gwen looked a little confused. "What does?"

Lady Sybil looked guilty. "Feeling like this; feeling glad and happy…despite the circumstances."

Gwen understood, and decided to borrow some of Lady Sybil's courage, and linked her arm with that of her friend's. After all, what could Mr. Carson do if he saw this familiar exchange between former servant and employer? Sack her? Forbid her from attending tomorrow's funeral? And that was exactly what she knew Lady Sybil had meant, because Gwen felt the same way. She was very, very sad about losing William; she was sad for Mr. Mason and for Daisy, too. But she couldn't help but feel joy in returning and seeing the wonderful faces of all her old friends. And even though she knew, deep down, that society would never see her and Lady Sybil as equals…Gwen did feel like an equal now, as a woman who no longer worked in service.

"I don't think William would resent us for feeling any happiness," she reassured. "He'd be glad that old friends had the chance to be reunited and reacquainted once again."

"Hmm? Oh! Oh yes," Lady Sybil apparently had been lost in her own thoughts, and Gwen noticed how quickly she was turning pink. _Very pink._

To say that Lady Sybil seemed distracted would be an understatement. While they traveled throughout the house, inspecting the different rooms, Gwen found herself having to be the one to ask questions about "and what goes in here?" and so forth. It seemed very unusual, especially since she knew how dear nursing had become to her friend. Not so long ago they had run into Lady Edith, who remembered Gwen and told her it was good to see her again. Gwen did notice though, out of the corner of her eye, how Lady Sybil seemed very…quiet, during this exchange, and kept lowering her gaze. Was she trying to hide something from her sister? Or to keep her sister from…_suspecting_…something? Then Gwen recalled how Lady Sybil had done something similar when they were all in the Servant's Hall…how she kept avoiding meeting the eyes of a certain Irish chauffeur.

Of course Gwen knew how Lady Sybil felt. She had confessed it all in her letters well over a year ago. And while Tom had never officially confessed his feelings for the Earl of Grantham's youngest daughter in his letters, she had known for a long time, that he harbored feelings for Lady Sybil; feelings that went far above mere friendship.

Had something happened? She recalled the intense way he had looked her, and the effects it had on her friend. However, this was not the place to ask such questions. "Perhaps we can take a walk through the garden? And you can tell me more about William's wedding?"

"Oh! Oh yes, that sounds lovely," Lady Sybil smiled, leading the way. Gwen listened patiently as her friend replayed everything she knew about the small, bedside ceremony. The truth was, Gwen already knew all of this thanks to a letter she had received from Anna before coming. Still, she let Lady Sybil retell the story, allowing for the two of them to move further and further away from the house…until when Lady Sybil finished, they were a good distance, and far away from eavesdroppers.

"Alright," Gwen said, reaching out and taking Sybil's hand. They were also far enough away that she could truly dispense of the formalities that society ordered them to obey. "Something's happened, I can tell."

Sybil was a little taken aback by Gwen's sudden question. "W-w-what?" she stammered, blushing deeply. "I…I don't—"

"Sybil, it's _me_," Gwen reassured, giving her a sympathetic smile. "I know all about your feelings for Tom Branson, and heaven knows I'm an accomplice in this 'forbidden romance', for all the time I spent passing your letters on to one another when you were in London. And I have never once breathed a word to another soul, not even to Tom," which was true for the most part. She had tried to give Tom hope without saying the exact words. The man would have to be really thick not to realize what she was suggesting, but sometimes Love could cloud the brains of even the wisest sage. "I know something's changed—I can see it all over your face, in your eyes, even in the timid way which you're standing right now."

Sybil shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not standing timidly—"

"Oh never mind all that, just tell me!"

She bit her lip, but not once did Gwen lower her expectant gaze. She would keep Sybil out here in the gardens for the rest of the day if that was what it took to finally get her to reveal what had happened. And she had an inkling…but she wanted to hear Sybil say it.

"Oh alright!" she groaned, rolling her eyes slightly. "We…we kissed."

Gwen stared at her, her eyes blinking in stunned silence. Well…even though a part of her had wondered if that was what had happened, still…she found the truth surprising!

"You kissed?"

"Yes," Sybil blushed, looking around to make sure there wasn't anyone nearby, like one of the other nurses, wheeling a patient.

Gwen's brow furrowed. She wanted to make sure she understood this perfectly. "And when you say 'kissed'…you mean you kissed on…?"

"Oh for heaven's sake Gwen, on the lips! We kissed on the lips!" she hissed, her arms now moving around herself like a protective hug.

"Who kissed who first?"

Sybil's face darkened even more, if that was possible. "I…he…" she stammered and then groaned in frustration at her bashfulness. "WE both did. I mean, we were…were standing there, in his cottage—"

"You were in Tom's cottage?" Gwen gasped.

"Not like that!" Sybil hissed, and then glared back at her friend when Gwen giggled at her indignation. "I went to Tom's cottage after I had learned about…about William's passing," she explained. Gwen's giggling stopped and she nodded her head in sympathy. She had sought comfort in Edward's arms when she had learned the news; she had a feeling that was why Sybil had gone to Tom, and she was right. "He…he was holding me while I cried," Sybil explained, her cheeks still aflame, but the bashful embarrassment now gone—replaced by loving awe. "Oh Gwen…I…despite how sad I was and still am over what happened to William, I…I can't deny how wonderful it felt," she confessed.

Indeed, Gwen could understand that feeling very well. "And…then?"

"And then…" Sybil breathed deeply, "I lifted my face from his shoulder…and his fingers came up and brushed the tears away from my cheek…and…and like magnets…we suddenly found our…our…"

"You suddenly found yourselves kissing," Gwen finished.

Sybil blushed, lowering her eyes and nodding her head.

Gwen smiled. "How was it?"

Sybil lifted her eyes to her friend's…and then a smile began to spread across her face. "Absolutely wonderful."

Gwen couldn't help but giggle at this revelation. Indeed, Edward was the first man she had ever kissed too, and when they had, she swore she heard firecrackers bursting all around her.

"I…I must confess, Gwen, I…I never really cared about that sort of thing before—romance and kissing, I mean. Mary was the Crawley sister that _had_ to find a husband. Edith was the Crawley sister that _wanted_ to have a husband. But I…I was the Crawley sister who didn't really care about all that. I was perfectly content to live the life of a 'spinster', according to what society says. Of course, I don't see 'spinsterhood' as a horrible fate, despite what some believe. I found the whole idea quite…liberating."

"But now?"

"Now…well, I still think that way, meaning I still think there's nothing wrong with a woman wanting to remain single, or that there is any shame in being independent without a husband. But…but as for myself," she sighed her gaze wandered off in the direction of the garage. "I would rather be a 'spinster' than married to a man who isn't Tom Branson."

Gwen captured Sybil's hands in hers and forced her to look at her. "So you _do_ want to marry him then?"

"Oh Gwen, I think I've always wanted to marry him," Sybil confessed. "It wasn't so much a question of 'do I or don't I?' but…'_can I?_'," she explained.

"Well…" Gwen whispered. "Can you?"

Sybil sighed. "I…I don't know. I mean, the will _is_ there, very much, it's just…I don't like the idea of lying to my family, but…will they ever accept such a union?"

Gwen squeezed her friend's hands. "I wish I could answer that question for you…and give you the answer we'd both like to hear, but I honestly don't know," she sighed and took Sybil into her own arms, giving her an encouraging hug. "But know this; you will always have our acceptance, mine and Edward's; I know that's not the same, but—"

"Oh Gwen," Sybil murmured, fresh tears coming to her eyes. "You're the Crawley sister I never had, and in many ways I feel closer to you than either Mary or Edith," she moved away so she could look into Gwen's eyes, which were also brimming with tears. "Thank you for that. Because…there may come a day when you and Edward are the only family I have."

* * *

><p>On the day of the funeral, the sky was gray and the air had a distinct chill; autumn would soon be here. It kept looking like it was going to rain, and every so often, the threat of thunder could be heard. However the rain held itself off until the procession returned to the house, and then it was a simple drizzle.<p>

As expected, the service was very somber. Edward held Annie in his arms, and Gwen had her arm linked through his right. Tom was able to keep Tommy quiet, and held him during the service, which Gwen would be forever thankful for. Yes, both children were very well behaved, and didn't begin to squirm until the walk back.

Even though William was "just a former employee" to his Lordship, the village church was packed to the gills. Daisy and Mr. Mason sat in the front pew, and Mrs. Patmore sat just behind Daisy. Because it was a service for a former servant, there was no "protocol", meaning there was no unspoken sanction that servants sit in the back. Many of the officers from the convalescent home filled the church as well, including Capt. Crawley, whom Gwen had learned was sadly paralyzed from the waist down. This was to be his first opportunity to be outside of the hospital, and by the end of the week he would transfer to Downton. Gwen watched him as Mrs. Crawley wheeled him near the front for the church; he wore a very grim expression, and she could see the residue of tears on his cheeks. When the service began, Mr. Travis invited both Mr. Mason and Capt. Crawley to come forward and say some words. Both were very emotional; Mr. Mason said a few things about William's childhood and how he loved to work and help others, which caused quite a few sniffles from amongst the Downton staff, whereas Capt. Crawley talked about William's bravery and optimism—he was a man who showed no fear, and whose positive morale was like a beacon to the rest of the troops. Indeed, by the time the service was over and everyone had moved to the graveside, there wasn't a dry eye to be seen.

Tom had been asked by Mr. Mason to be a pallbearer; he passed Tommy onto Anna, who held the boy and bounced him lightly in her arms as both Tom and Mr. Bates rose to help. Even Thomas, much to Gwen's surprise, joined the team of pallbearers.

The graveside service was short; Mr. Travis gave the final prayer and blessing, and as he did so, Gwen looked around at all the faces. Everyone on staff, save for a few kitchen maids, were at the service (they were back at the house, preparing things for the special servant's luncheon that would follow). And all members of the Crawley family were there, including the Dowager Countess, who was clinging to the hands of both Lady Edith and Lady Sybil. Sybil, Gwen had noticed, wore her nurse's uniform. And like the rest of the staff, also wore a black armband. Sybil had expressed to her the other day how she wished she could attend the servant's luncheon; her family, while being good hearted would not understand or feel William's loss the same way she did, which was more similar to the staff's feelings. Gwen sympathized, and told her that William would understand.

She sat between Anna and Tom during the luncheon, and Mr. Carson led the room in a moment of silence. They all ate their food quietly, murmuring every so often about how good it tasted. Mrs. Patmore had purposefully prepared some of William's favorite dishes, and had to leave the table on a few occasions for fear that she would start sobbing. Mr. Mason stoically sat by Daisy, who had barely touched any of her food. It was Mr. Mason who also broke the quiet, commenting when the dessert came out about how William always had a love for treacle tart, and was always raving about Mrs. Patmore's recipe. He raved about it so much that finally his mother told him that if got the Downton cook's recipe, she would try and recreate it for Christmas. A small chuckle rose up from around the table…and soon stories about William were being traded back and forth; favorite memories, cherished moments, and funny recollections. Even Daisy gave a small smile at one point.

After luncheon was over, Edward remained in the Servant's Hall with the children, who continued to be fussed over by Mrs. Hughes and Anna, while Gwen went with Tom to have a "look at _her_ typewriter" to make sure he was treating it well. It was an excuse, of course, to get him away from the others so she could ask him about the kiss that had taken place between both he and Sybil.

"See? I'm being good to it," Tom defended, taking the typewriter down from the shelf in his cottage where he kept it. Gwen nodded her head in approval as he demonstrated putting more ink into the machine, as well as fixing the rivets if something snapped. "Not so different from tinkering with an engine," he joked.

"Yes, I suppose you've earned the right to keep it," she teased. She glanced around the cottage then…and wondered where exactly he and Lady Sybil had been standing, when the kiss took place. "Tom…can I ask you something?"

He was too busy readjusting something with the typewriter to look up at her, but he made a sound that indicated he had heard her question and that yes, it was alright for her to proceed.

"What's going to happen now?"

His head was still bowed over the machine. "What do you mean?"

"Well, now that you and Lady Sybil have kissed—"

His head snapped up so quickly, Gwen wondered if he would give himself whiplash. "W-w-w-what?"

"I know about the kiss," Gwen murmured.

His face went pale…before burning a bright shade of red. "You do?"

She nodded her head, a small smile pulling up at the corners of her mouth. "Sybil told me."

"W-w-w-when?" he stammered.

"Yesterday," she explained. "I could tell that…something had happened. The way she blushed whenever your name was mentioned…and the way she was trying to avoid the eyes of others, be it her sister or Mr. Carson, as if she might give something away if they could see her eyes. And then there was the way the two of you were looking at one another…"

His body seemed to stiffen a little, and his face only grew darker. "H-h-how was I…w-were we looking?" he stuttered a little, trying to calm himself down.

"Tom, you don't need to be nervous around me; I'm not going to report you, for heaven's sake!" She tried to joke, hoping that would ease his worries a little. "After all, I had my chances to do all that years ago with your letters. And don't act so surprised—from the moment I saw you sulking after Lady Sybil went to London, I began to realize how head over heels you were for her."

He coughed and tried to clear his throat to calm himself. "I…I'm sorry Gwen, it's just…I think I'm on edge a great deal more than I used to be, ever since I learned that Lady Mary found out—"

"Lady Mary knows?" Gwen gasped, her eyes widening with shock.

"Not _everything_," Tom muttered. "But…she cornered Sybil one day, and Sybil 'confessed' so to speak, about…about 'us'."

Gwen knew nothing about this. And she could certainly understand Tom's nervousness about who was aware of his love for the Earl of Grantham's youngest. "What…what did she say?"

"Sybil swears Lady Mary won't give us away…" he paused and a soft smile lifted at the corner of his mouth, as if he were remembering something. "I have a harder time believing that, but…nothing has happened, yet," he added. "I'm still here; neither his Lordship nor Mr. Carson have come crashing into my cottage, demanding I leave the premises immediately. And to be quite honest, I wouldn't be too surprised if she's forgotten about it, Lady Mary I mean…I think she's much more concerned about Capt. Crawley's health than some chauffeur making 'cow eyes' at her sister."

Gwen knew Lady Mary a little more than Tom did; while Anna was normally the one in charge of seeing to Lady Mary, Gwen had helped on a few occasions when Anna was unavailable. She knew that Lady Mary could be harsh, or at least seem that way, but she also knew that she was capable of keeping a secret, at least that was what Anna had told her. "What does she know exactly?"

"I don't know the details, not fully," Tom sighed. "I…I was too shocked to really try and ask," he confessed. "However, I imagine she believes it's all coming from me, that her sister doesn't feel anything. If she did, I doubt Sybil would be able to get away with even something as simple as a ride to the hospital, without a 'proper escort'."

"Little does she know…" Gwen murmured.

Tom smiled at that, stuffed his hands into his pockets. "She…she came to the cottage the night William had died," he began at last. "And…what can I say? We let the emotion rule the pair of us—one minute we were holding each other, her sobbing against my shoulder, me trying to comfort and soothe her…and the next…" he paused as the memory of the sweet kiss washed over him again.

_Like magnets, they were drawn together. Her lips against his. He had dreamed of this moment so many times he had lost count. But this was so much better than any dream. Her lips were smooth, soft, and warm. Very, very warm. As far as the realm of kissing went, it was a chaste kiss, nothing more than the pressing of lips against each other. And yet, there was a great deal of emotion and passion felt in that "simple" press. Years of yearning, years of dreaming, years of wondering if she would ever love him as deeply as he loved her…all of that was present as his lips moved against hers._

_When they drew their heads back to gasp for breath, he stared down at her in complete shock and amazement. Despite the shadows around them, he could see her eyes perfectly. Like him, she too was breathing hard, and like him, he had a feeling she too was tingling all over. He stared at her lips, moist and full, parting slightly as she whispered his name, his first name, the name one would exchange with their equal…their other half._

_His mouth descended upon hers before she could say much else. Now, the raw passion that had been pacing inside him, like a caged tiger, began to spring forth. His hands were pulling her closer to his body, and his mouth was urging hers to open so that he could taste her sweetness even more. He groaned when her lips parted and welcomed his tongue. _"I'm home,"_ he thought to himself, and that only caused him to deepen the kiss further. Soon she was mimicking him, doing the very things his mouth had been doing, her own tongue slipping past his lips, tasting the inside of his mouth, moving in a heated rhythm that made his body feel like it was on fire. And for all he knew, it was, but he didn't care, and he would never stop kissing her if he could help it._

_His lips began an exploration then. Kissing her jaw, her cheek, her ear, playfully drawing the lobe between his teeth. He grinned as he heard her pleasured whimper. His lips descended then to her neck; God it was beautiful…and her skin was delicious, which naturally caused him to wonder how she would taste elsewhere…and it only made the fire inside him burn even hotter at the thought. His hands, which were moving all over her back, pressing her beautiful and delicious curves even closer to him, began to roam as well…and she gasped as they moved down and clutched her sweet rump, squeezing it as he had always dreamed of doing, bringing closer and closer…and gasping himself as he could feel her heat pressed quite closely to his hardened groin._

_That was when their kiss had finally come to an end, and when reality began to settle around them once more…_

"Tom?"

He shook his head, and Gwen couldn't help but arch a ginger brow. She had a feeling she knew very well what he was thinking…or "reliving".

"Nothing happened, Gwen; I mean, besides the kiss," he reassured.

"I know," she reassured. "I have a feeling Sybil would be doing a great deal more than turning bright red if that had taken place," she gently teased, before turning serious once again. "Despite your 'rebellious nature', you are a gentleman, Mr. Branson."

He smiled a little at this and ran a hand through his hair. "She…she told me it was her first kiss," he murmured, once again recalling the words that had passed between them. "I…I can't begin to explain—"

"You don't have to," Gwen smiled. "Edward is the only man I ever kissed, and like you, he seemed rather…'amazed'…by this confession," she couldn't help but giggle. "Must be a bloke thing."

He chuckled and nodded his head, but soon his smile began to fade slightly. "I…I honestly don't know what will happen now," he confessed. "I know what I want to happen, I know what I hope will happen…but I don't know if it _will_."

She reached for his hand and he took it, and gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze. "There must be a part of you that believes it will, though; you're still here, after all this time."

He returned the squeeze and nodded his head. "Hopeless romantic; clearly the Celt in me." He looked away then, as if trying to see something in the distance. "It's hard sometimes, trying to remain hopeful. I can't deny there are days when I have very little hope..." he took a deep breath and turned his eyes back to hers. "But…then there are days like that night, when we kissed, and…and even though she didn't say that she returned my feelings, I _felt_ her love."

Oh how Gwen wished she could tell him that it was true, that Sybil did love him, that she had letters stored away in a hat box back in her cottage that Sybil had written to her, confessing that love. But at the same time, she knew that Sybil needed to be the one to tell him at last. She only prayed it would be much sooner than later…and from the sound of it, from these two conversations that she had been having with both of them, it did sound like it could happen. Perhaps when the War ended?

"Is it wrong of me to feel like this, after a dear friend dies?" he quietly asked.

Gwen gave a sad smile, but shook her head. "William had a great heart and a great love for others; I think it be more disgraceful to his memory if we didn't try to find and feel happiness and share the love we have with those around us."

* * *

><p>The next day was cool and cloudy, but thankfully it wasn't raining. Today was the day to journey home. Gwen had said her goodbyes the night before, hugging Anna tightly, whispering something in her ear about "your turn is next" before smiling at Mr. Bates in such a way that Anna was blushing from ear to ear. She gave hugs to the others, even Mr. Carson, who looked a little awkward, and gave her a nice pat on her back. Anna had told Sybil about her leaving, and she came rushing downstairs just as she had done before, hugging her fiercely and telling her how much she would miss her. "I'll write to you as soon as I get back," Gwen promised. She then whispered in Sybil's ear, "You're the bravest person I know; just as you once told me to not give up hope, I'm returning the favor." Sybil began to cry then, and Anna actually had to pull her away.<p>

Tom drove them back to the Grantham Arms, and before parting she gave him a fierce hug and told him to have faith. He responded with a chuckle and a soft "thank you". He gave a little kiss to Annie and Tommy, who both cooed his name once again, before falling asleep in their parent's arms.

Now it was morning, and they would be going back. A part of Gwen was glad for this; she loved the home she and Edward had made, for both them and their children. She also loved being away from the memories of working in service, as being a secretary was and remained to be her true passion. But she would certainly miss her friends…and worry for them. She would worry for Anna and Mr. Bates as they continued struggling against the man's estranged wife. She would worry for Daisy as she tried to cope after this heartbreaking loss. And she would worry about Tom and Lady Sybil, and what would become of the two of them.

Edward's hand squeezed hers after they had taken their seats on the bus, both Tommy and Annie fast asleep against their bodies. "How are you?" he tenderly asked.

She smiled and brought his hand to her lips, giving it a sweet kiss. "I'm thinking…I need to spend more time counting my blessings," she murmured.

He smiled and leaned forward, kissing her brow softly. "And your friends? How do you think that went?"

She sighed, before laying her head against his shoulder. "I'm convinced they're more in love with each other than ever before. But I also know that they're both absolutely terrified."

He laced their fingers together and leaned his own head against hers. "A bit like us, in a way."

She giggled softly and nodded her head. One thing that Gwen Dawson, now Gwen Warren had learned about Love was that it was both exceedingly wonderful, and exceedingly frightening. Yet she knew she could face all her worries and anxieties with Edward by her side: her partner, her husband, and the father of her children.

And she knew this would be true for both Tom and Sybil; they were destined to take on the world, and always had been.

* * *

><p><em>Please share your thoughts! Thanks for reading!<em>


	113. Sybil's Diary XXVIII

_WOW! I know it's been a while since I updated, but HERE IT IS! Sorry about the delay; but please don't worry, I haven't abandoned this story, and now we finally move on to a different part, covering the events of episode 6 in season 2. Not a ton of Sybil/Branson scenes in that episode (that we saw, at least) but plenty of opportunities for the two of them to pine for each other, as well as begin to plant some seeds for their future with other members of staff and various family members. I will keep working on this story during the holidays, as well as continually updating my Christmas DA fic, Love (and Downton) Actually, which if you haven't read...GIVE IT A READ! :oP _

_One more thing; even though Jess is a beautiful woman, for some reason I always imagined Sybil having some issues with her "body image"; she certainly seems to be the curviest of the Crawley sisters, and in previous chapters I even make references to some of her family members making quips about her weight. So I thought I would explore that a little here, and show that even if someone is told over and over how lovely they are, they can still struggle with seeing it themselves (something I'm sure many of us have had to struggle with ourselves). Anyway, thanks for your patience, and let me know your thoughts!_

* * *

><p><strong>Volume II, Part VII<strong>

_Autumn 1918_

**Chapter One-Hundred and Thirteen**

September 13, 1918

It's been well over a fortnight since Gwen's visit. I can't believe how much I've missed her company, her presence here…since her brief stay at Downton. Well, actually I can believe it, because it is true, I have deeply missed her, ever since she left Downton back when the War started. But…I didn't realize how deeply her being here…and then leaving again after only a few short days…would affect me so. I cried myself to sleep the night after she left. If truth be told, I cried myself to sleep for several nights after she left. I just…I miss my friend; I miss having her here, with me. I miss being able to go to her and share with her everything that's on my mind and in my heart…and I know I can do that, to a point, with my letters, but…it's different, having that friend here, with you.

And…and I miss that. So much. Perhaps more now, than ever before.

…

…

More than a fortnight has passed since Gwen's visit, since William's funeral, and since…since…

…

…since Branson—_Tom_, and I…kissed.

…

I told Gwen all about that kiss. I wish she were still here, because perhaps she can give me some advice on what to do now. Tom and I…we…we haven't really spoken that much since it happened. Things have changed, obviously. Not just between he and I, but here at the house. I've spent a great deal of my time these fast few weeks at the hospital; we're receiving patients now that have no connection to Downton, or even to Yorkshire. For example, a Canadian regiment has recently come to the hospital—members of Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry. They've been arriving bit by bit over the past week. Some days we'll receive ten patients, other days we'll receive forty. And some of the officers who are recovering from severe trauma, even though they could still do with medical attention at the hospital, are being sent to Downton to relieve some of the beds at the hospital. It just seems so amazing, sometimes; just when I think we've had the busiest week, that things couldn't be busier…I'm proven wrong. But once again, Dr. Clarkson assures me and the rest of us, that this is all a sign that the War will be over soon.

When I come home from my shifts, I'm just so tired…I hardly say anything to Tom. And now that…that William has died, Edith is once again feeling a little restless, even though she still serves as Convalescent Manager. She insists on picking me up in the evenings when my shifts end, and I haven't really fought her…perhaps because—no, I know it's because I'm such a coward, and unsure what to say to Tom.

_Tom._

I…I find myself thinking about him more as…as Tom, than Branson anymore.

Whenever I see him…be it from a distance while I'm in the house or the yard and he's outside working on a car…or picking up Granny and helping her out of the car…or…or anywhere, I…I just keep thinking about what happened that night, in his cottage. About how…how wonderful and right it felt, to find shelter and comfort in his arms, to feel him hold me, pull me closer while I sobbed against his chest…and…and then how he touched my face…and the way his lips tasted…

…

…

…

Oh Gwen, I wish you were here!

…

I know this isn't the first time I've talked about Tom's kiss in this wretched book, but…I can't help it, truly…I…I never knew kissing could be _like that!_ I mean, I have read about kissing in books…and I've listened to some of the other nurses talk about kissing their beaus…but…but I never realized that when I overheard them talking about tongues being used in kissing, it would mean _THAT!_

…

…

Oh God, my face is on fire whenever I think about it! Oh I wish I asked Gwen more about kissing; I feel so much more comfortable talking to her about it than either of my sisters (of course that's completely out of the question with Mary now; she would automatically accuse Branson of doing something horrid, when it was I who went to his cottage in the middle of the night, I who threw myself into his arms, I who leaned in just as he was leaning down…and I who didn't stop him until…until I felt…

…

…

…I…I mean, how can I look at him after THAT? How can I look at myself in the mirror after all that? Because every time I see him, I can't stop thinking about that kiss…and how it felt to be in his arms…and how his hands touched me…running up and down my back…and grasping my…

…

…

Well…grasping me rather inappropriately…and yet, God forgive me, I loved it! I mean, does that happen often? Do men do that when they kiss? Of course not all the time, but…but when no one is looking, and a couple are completely alone…does a man's hands wander down a lady's back to touch her…well, to her there? I was surprised to say the least, but…but I didn't stop it. In truth…it rather thrilled me! The way he just…clung to me! Pulling me closer, gripping me tighter, and then feeling him…there…and…and feeling his reaction…

…

I don't know why this has surprised me, because he's told me he wants me to be with him, to run away with him, to…to marry him…and…and in essence, these are declarations of love. Yet…it's all still so shocking! That…that I could have such an effect on him! I mean, I have had people tell me they think I'm pretty, but I have never thought of myself as a beauty, certainly not like Mary in all her refinement and regalness. And while sadly Edith is sometimes compared to Mary (which is completely unfair) I have always thought of Edith as a beauty too, and very elegant. And both of them have the sort of waists that society claims to not only be fashionable, but desirable too. And I was always the awkward girl, "delightfully chubby" as Aunt Rosamond told me when I was a child, like one of those "fat-faced cherubs" you would see in magazines. And I remember how at the age of twelve, Larry Grey chased me around the gardens during Mary's birthday party, teasing me about having "massive tits" and wanting to feel one…and I ran and hid in the kitchen storage cupboard, and didn't come out until the party was over and the Grey's had left. And that was the first of many tears shed over my "freakish" body—neither Mary nor Edith had developed breasts at the age of twelve; they were always so graceful and waif-like and pretty…and I was chubby and curvy and spotty. In truth, I've never ever really cared for my body…

…Until Tom touched me.

Do I…do I really excite him like that? Oh Lord, I wouldn't dare look at my reflection right now; I'm sure I'm redder than the plumpest of strawberries, but…for the first time, I feel…I actually _feel_ beautiful. And…while it was very, very exciting, it was also very frightening, to confront these feelings in me, and to _feel_ them in him…I had to stop our kiss, although I do sometimes find myself wondering…what would have happened if I hadn't?

And that's part of the reason why…why I haven't tried to go to him. I don't know what's going to happen the next time he and I are alone together. Will we kiss again? Will we…simply touch? Or will it be as when Gwen visited? Will there be this strange…awkwardness between the two of us?

…

…

Tom really is a natural with children. Oh God, I'm thinking about it again! But seeing him play with Gwen's children as he did when she visited…I…I couldn't help but think of what it would be like to have a family with him. I…I do think he would be a good father. Although heaven help us, he'd probably spoil them all, and I would be left to be the "strict parent", while their father is the one they run to whenever "mummy is mean".

…

…

Yes…I have been thinking a great deal about our future. Especially since the kiss, although I know in truth, I've been thinking about it long before that happened. That day when we had the argument in the car and I slapped him (oh, I'm so embarrassed by my behavior when I remember it!) but I did tell him then and it remains true now, that I both was, and have been thinking about his proposal, seriously thinking about it, and trying to see if this is right. Because as I told Gwen, I do love him, I do want to say yes, it's just trying to learn…how. Because Mary's words still echo in my head, about…about how this isn't "fairyland"…and the awful prospect that none of my family will ever accept us.

I hate that thought. God, it hurts so much, but…but after we kissed, I know that…that I can't bear to part from him. I've known that for so long, deep down, but that kiss confirmed it. I love Tom; I want to be with him, I want to feel his kisses every day for the rest of my life! I don't want to suffer a similar fate like that of William and Daisy…or make the same mistakes both Mary and Matthew have. But it is terrifying, facing the horrible truth that…that I may lose someone I love.

…

…

…

Speaking of my sister, she continues to be attentive to Matthew. He's here now, at Downton, convalescing along with the other officers. Mary continues to be his personal nurse; she spends a great deal of her time taking Matthew for "walks" through the gardens, as the last of warm weather lingers before the cold winds of Autumn return. It's a shame, in so many ways, to think that it took this horrid War and his horrid injury to bring them together again. Although they aren't truly together—Sir Richard makes many frequent visits. Mama mentioned something about how he wants to purchase an estate close to Downton, and that he travels from London as often as he can in search of such a place. I have noticed, however, that…he does watch Mary and Matthew while they are on their walks. I can't help but wonder if he's jealous?

Still…no word from Lavinia. I sometimes wish to ask Cousin Isobel if she has heard anything from her, but…I know it's not my place to ask. Oh God, if only I could despise her and be happy with how things have gone? But…Lavinia really is sweet, and I do like her…and I do feel sorry for her, for what happened between her and Matthew. And even though both Matthew and Mary spend so much time together now (and he only seems to smile when she's with him) I don't know if anything will…rekindle those feelings they once shared. They're both such stubborn people—and Mama says I'm the pig-headed one!

But I don't want to miss my heart's opportunity at happiness the way my sister has, or so it seems. I don't want to settle for just anyone, the way Mary seems to have done with Sir Richard. And I don't want to flee at the first sign of hardship the way Lavinia has. I know, I'm being cruel in writing all those things, but…

…

…I just don't want to live a life always wondering…what if? What if the greatest adventure of my life was in truth…a person, and not just any person, but…an Irish socialist who also happens to be our chauffeur? What if my greatest chance of living a happy, fulfilled life…is living it beside this man? Spending all my days with him, loving him totally and completely with every heartbeat and breath of air?

…

Oh Branson. _Oh Tom_.

You once told me to bet on you. Please…please bet on me, too. Just be patient with me as I try to figure out the best way to handle all this. But have faith in me, and…and remember our kiss, just as much as I remember it. Because that was not a kiss given in foolishness; it was a kiss that held a promise. I am yours. And I will go with you. Just…please wait. At least until the moment is right. That's all I ask. The rest truly is, detail.


	114. Branson's Journal XIII

_Once again, sorry for the slow updates! I will try to update this story at least two more times before Christmas, but I am also working on a special seasonal story (plug-in music) Love (and Downton) Actually, which I'm hoping to wrap up by New Year's, so once that's done, I can get back to focusing more time and effort on this one. But until then, I hope you enjoy these few updates, and that you enjoy this! More reminicing about that kiss, this time from Tom's perspective! Thanks again for sticking with this and reading and for all the wonderful and lovely comments! _

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Fourteen<strong>

September 13, 1918

A shadow continues to hang over Downton…

In the weeks that have followed William's funeral, we all continue to move about like lost spirits; ghosts who have purpose and duties to perform, but…lifeless creatures, none the less.

At least that's how I feel.

Daisy has outlasted us all, certainly. She continues to wear her armband, a sign of grief and loss. As William's widow, she can wear that band for much longer than the rest of us; of course, as a kitchen maid, who lives and serves strictly below stairs and who is not meant to be seen by his Lordship or any other members of the Crawley family, it won't "offend" anyone, if she wears that band till the new year. I tried to wear my band for as long as I could; knowing that Mr. Carson would disapprove if he caught me wearing it over my uniform, I secretly wore it beneath my livery jacket. I only removed it a few days ago…though a part of me wishes I hadn't.

It's an interesting question, in a way. What is the "proper length of time" to grieve? In many ways, I'm still grieving Martin's death. But so many of these "traditions" about showing your grief have some sort of "limitation"; you must wear black for so long, and then you wear different colors, and so on and so forth. And it varies for different people; parents, spouses, siblings, distant relatives, friends…

In some ways, I resent these "rules for grief" because by no means do I feel ready to stop showing my grief for William. But then I think about how I'm still grieving for my cousin, and I find myself wondering if there's something wrong with me because I still have these feelings…and how on certain days they're very strong, and on others, the pain isn't so bad.

And then…I confess, I feel incredible guilt, because…because while I do grieve for my friend, and continue to grieve for my cousin—both of whom in their own ways were like brothers to me…my mind continues to remain enraptured…by her.

…

…

And even more so now, after what happened.

…

I…I still can't believe…I mean, it's been a few weeks, but still…

…_We kissed._

…

…

I can't believe she told Gwen! I…what does that mean? It sounds like a foolish question, but it's been one I've been agonizing over ever since Gwen told me during her visit, that Sybil told her all about the kiss! And…and how much did Sybil tell her?

Oh God…I don't know what to do. For once, I'm absolutely speechless. It's just…

…

…

…

I know what I _want_ to believe this means! And…and I certainly _wanted_ to believe _that_ when she kissed me.

…And she _did_ kiss me. The first kiss was…the both of us. And the second kiss, I…well, I can't deny _I_ let myself get carried away, but…_but she kissed me back_. Oh God, when I remember that kiss…the way her arms moved around my neck…her fingers curling into my hair…and…and her lips, moaning and parting, letting my tongue taste her mouth…Oh God…I can _still_ taste her…

I…I can't even begin to describe the sweetness of her lips. There's nothing to compare it to, other than…heaven? God knows Martin would be rolling with laughter at my description, after teasing me relentlessly for that, but…it's true. If a priest asked me to describe heaven, I would honestly say it's holding Lady Sybil Crawley…and kissing her.

I've dreamed of that moment for so long. But in my dreams, I would always wake up and find my arms empty and my lips untouched. But…that was no dream. She came to me…she came to me, seeking comfort, and…and we kissed…and…and God, it was tempting. It was so, so tempting to lose myself in that moment, to forget that this was real and just another dream, because in my dreams more would happen; the kiss would deepen, and…well, as I said, more would happen. I only became aware, really, that I wasn't dreaming when she moaned for me to stop.

And no dream had ever been _that_ good.

…

…

We haven't spoken a great deal since that kiss. Since Gwen's visit and William's funeral, really. A part of it is her schedule at the hospital. A great deal of her shifts has been there, and Lady Edith wishes to drive the car to pick her up—and what can I do? I can't very well argue with her that no, I would like to take Sybil to and from the hospital, with hopes that maybe she'll kiss me again. No, I can't do that; the last thing I need is another Crawley sister suspecting me of trying to "seduce" the youngest member of the family.

But…I'm sure that there's more to it than just a busy schedule. I'm sure that a part of it is…well, like she had told me when she asked me to stop—she's afraid.

I don't think that means she's afraid of me, but…afraid, perhaps of…of what was happening. My God, when I remember how she told me she had never been kissed before, that I had given her her first kiss…I truly can't begin to explain what that means to me! In some ways I find it hard to believe; simply that…I mean, look at her! She's the most beautiful woman in the world! How…how is it possible that no one has tried to kiss her before? But maybe some men have, and she's managed to push them away? God, I remember how terrified I was when she went to London; I remember how jealous I was when she told me all about that other Tom, who died shortly before she left for York. I thought surely some other man was going to kiss her—that she had been kissed, many times, and despite the passion I had lost myself in when we did kiss, a part of me was worried (the part of me that could still think coherently) that I would "measure up" to those other posh gits.

…But I was her first; her first kiss. And God willing, I'll be kissing her for many, many years to come.

…

…

So…her telling Gwen; does it mean what I have…well, what I have "accused" her of? That she is in fact, _in love_ with me? God I want to believe it; she hasn't said the words, but at the same time, she hasn't denied it either. And she has told me, more than once, that she's contemplating my proposal, that's she's giving it some serious thought—and she has talked about "us" as…us. And then when she came to my cottage…and she let me hold her and kiss her and she kissed me back…

Is it true then? I know, I know, I always seem so sure of myself, but is it true? Does Lady Sybil Crawley…_love me?_

…

…

A friend of mine just died, fighting in a war that I'm against. There's a part of me that's telling me I'm selfish and unfeeling for spending more time thinking about Sybil than about the injustice of his death. That same voice shouted at me when Martin died, too. That even after his death, a death that…that was most definitely senseless and unjustified…my mind was still consumed with thoughts of her. I don't know if it will ever not be consumed with thoughts of her?

When Gwen visited…and Sybil held Tommy in her arms…I can't even begin to describe what I felt upon seeing that image…

…_Her_…_holding a child_…and how one day…she may be holding a child that…that could possibly be _ours..._

_..._

_..._

Such thoughts have been filling my mind as of late. Thoughts about a future for both of us…and the family we could build…

…

…

Gwen said it's not a dishonor to William's memory, for thinking these things. That she believes if William had known about my feelings for Sybil, he would support them, that he would support _us_. I…I want to believe that. And I pray that this is true; that William is perhaps watching over us, and trying to be that optimistic, encouraging voice that he's always been, even for an Irish working class lad like myself, in love with an Englishwoman who's so far above him.

Jane, the new housemaid…she was talking earlier today, to Anna and Bates; she was so fascinated by their love story, and wanted to hear every detail about their courtship and how they came to be together.

...

I can't help but find myself wondering…what would she make of the love story between a chauffeur and an earl's daughter?


	115. 1918: A Second Letter to Susan

_Hello everyone! Here's another update! While I wish I could get *one more* in before Christmas, it's looking doubtful (but you never know!) However, my plan for this story is to get everything about this current section (all the events of episode 2x06) *done* by January 6 (the S3 premiere date in the US) I'm a long way from getting to that point, but that is my goal, which does mean that you will be seeing A LOT of updates between now and Jan. 6 (all going well). My other big goal is to finish my holiday story Love (and Downton) Actually by New Years Day, so if you're following that one, pay attention to it too, and expect lots of updates as well! *ALSO* I hope on either Christmas Eve or Christmas Day to write a cute Branson family fluffy one-shot about Sybil and Tom and their daughter's first Christmas :o) PHEW! I wish I could only be this motivated for those pesky "real-life" things as I am for fanfiction :oP_

_Anyway, if I don't update Love's Journey before the holiday, I hope you all have a WONDERFUL Christmas, and if you don't celebrate it, have a WONDERFUL Dec. 25! HAPPY HOLIDAYS!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Fifteen<strong>

Dear Susan,

The Canadians have invaded! At least that's what my grandmother is saying (although she's quite happy that none of them are Americans—of course she'll never say that around my mother's hearing). Has there been an influx of Canadian patients in Liverpool? A great many of them are up in York, but there are quite a few here at Downton as well, mainly from Princess Patricia's Light Infantry. One such soldier, an officer (because heaven forbid if a man who is not an officer stays at the Downton Convalescent Home…oh I shouldn't even joke about that Susan, it still bothers me immensely!) has requested if he can come and stay at the house while he recovers. It was a bit of a surprise, really; I mean he's not the first Canadian officer to stay here. There are several who have some connection to the village or the county. But apparently this officer has a connection…to our family!

I met him briefly yesterday. He will be making his move to the house tomorrow. The poor man; I've seen worse, but...well, it's hard for anyone to recover from such injuries. He was badly burned. His entire face is covered with severe scars. I helped put new dressings on his wounds and even though I have done this now hundreds of times, it still can be shocking, to see the extent of injury. I made sure, however, that the nurse who worked beside me was a "seasoned" girl, and not some fresh volunteer miss who has no experience of any kind in the sick room. Remember that story I shared with you once, about the farmer's daughter who volunteered, and then fainted when I was re-dressing a burned arm? Thank the Lord Nurse Daniels partnered me with someone competent.

Yes, I do feel sorry for this man. Not only has he suffered severe facial burns, but one of his hands was amputated as well. I pray things are better for him than poor Capt. Smiley, who lost his left hand and needed help writing his letters. Anyway, this officer's name is Patrick Gordon. How he has a connection to our family, I'm not sure. I was at home when Dr. Clarkson spoke to Papa about the man's request. Funny, I suppose—the entire time I was seeing to Maj. Gordon he never once made any mention to me, but perhaps he doesn't know me? I'm sure that's it; after all, it's not entirely expected that an earl's daughter would be working as a nurse in a village hospital. When I learned that Maj. Gordon wanted to stay for this reason…well, I must say that my first thought was "Cousin Patrick"?

Remember the story I told you about, Susan? The one about my cousin, Patrick, who was the original heir to Downton, and who was lost on the Titanic? Of course this man isn't him; not only does he have a different name, but he's Canadian, and my cousin Patrick was British like you and I. Not to mention that…my cousin is dead. But…yes, I confess, that was the first thought that came to my mind. But then how foolish of me to even think that! After all, I have met several Patricks during my time as a nurse, both at the hospital and at the Convalescent Home, and all of them have some "claim" to the area. Still…it is strange, don't you think? This man, this foreigner, who has some claim to our family, or so he claims.

Oh forgive me, Susan, but how are you? How are things in Liverpool? How is James? Any interesting…news? Oh alright, I'll admit it, any news about…the two of you? And…your family? I just…forgive me, I know it's not the sort of thing we're "supposed" to talk about in letters, but I like to think that you and I are above all that nonsense. But I do remember you saying that the thought about a little one has crossed your mind, so I am curious if there have been any "developments", in that area?

My friend Gwen, who used to serve Downton as a housemaid but who now works as a secretary for a telephone company, she visited not so long ago. She has two children, a boy and a girl (twins) and they came with her. Such adorable children, Susan! Annie and Tommy; both freckled and ginger-haired like their mother, but they have their father's facial features. Oh it was so good to see her…even if the circumstances weren't the sort you wished to have a friend arrive for.

We are all still grieving the passing of my friend, William. Certainly the servants are still grieving, but I think his death has greatly affected my sister, Edith, as well as my grandmother. Every so often, I'll be passing a room here at the house, and I'll look out of the corner of my eye and see what at first I think is a tall, young man, with blonde hair in a crisp footman's livery…and I'll think "It's William!"…and then I realize that no, what I saw was a shadow, or another man passing, but standing near a spot where I would always see William standing.

While I am sad for his passing, I feel sadder when I think about his father. William's mother died just before the War started. And now that William has died…poor Mr. Mason is all alone. I hope and pray that he will come here often, perhaps to visit with Daisy, William's sweetheart who he married just before he died. But at the same time, I can understand if he doesn't wish to; this house may carry too many painful memories.

I told you about William marrying Daisy in my last letter. Oh Susan, it was so sad. Just…the thought of something like that. It breaks my heart, because I can't help but think of all the wonderful things they never got to do. When you love someone, you want to spend all your days with them, you want to grow old with them, and…and see the world and all its wonders with them! It's not fair…what happened to William and what happened to both he and Daisy isn't fair. This War has been very cruel on so many different people (and I know you know that personally). We have a new maid here, named Jane; she's a war widow and has a young son. I don't know her very well, but I feel so sorry for her, and for her child. Oh Susan, I know this isn't anything new to hear, but…I'm ready, like so many of us; I'm ready for this war to _finally_ come to an end!

The papers say it should be soon. Any day now. Of course, those same papers were saying that so many months ago, if not a year ago. Still…I keep hoping and praying that when Christmas comes this year, it will be during a time of peace, and not during another month of bloodshed.

Of course, the question becomes of what will happen to Downton when the War ends? It may sound like a silly question (everyone expects it to go back to being a house again) but I think my Cousin Isobel has other thoughts in mind. She was talking to me the other day, asking if I knew anything about the future plans for Downton. I can't deny, I was surprised! If Granny and Mama have any say, then of course Downton will go back to being a house! But Cousin Isobel is hoping to convince them otherwise. I think she was hoping I would help her in this endeavor. I can't deny that I do agree with her; I think Downton would serve the county and the country far better if it were used for such a purpose. It's really too big for a family like ours. Do people need such big houses? Oh I know, there I go again—"poor little rich girl"—but, I must confess Susan…I have been thinking a great deal about…living simpler.

Susan…I know I can trust you with keeping a secret. But…well…do you think I'm mad if I…if I wanted to…give all this up? This entire life as an earl's daughter? I think I always felt this way, meaning the longing for living simpler, but after going to York and attending the school there, those feelings were truly confirmed. I like working. I like getting up each day and facing it, feeling like I have purpose. I like helping people. No, I love it. I love being a nurse, I truly do! It's a hard job, and yes, there are days when I want to do nothing more than scream and shake my fists, but…all in all, I do love it. And I confess, I'm afraid that when the War ends, I'll be expected to give it all up and go back to being "an earl's daughter". Waking up each day for…nothing, really. Having luncheon or tea with Lord so-and-so's daughters. Sending letters of correspondence to people I hardly know, but because they are of "my class", it is expected. Dressing to the nines every night for dinner, even when we don't have any guests to entertain. And repeating this monotony, every day. Yes, a trip to London during the Season is exciting, but I have never been one for balls and parties, at least not those sorts of parties. Oh Susan, did I ever tell you the story about how Branson helped me plan my trip to London? He gave me all sorts of tips, about things to see at the British Museum, and the merchants on Portobello Road, and chips! Does that sound funny to you? I've only had them the one time, but I love them and I wish I could have some right now!

…

…

Do I sound silly? Or…ungrateful? I don't mean to be. I've heard this phrase: "the grass is greener on the other side"; I know that it means that…no matter where you are, things always seem better someplace else. And…and I know things are not easy for those who have to work every day to put food on the table and keep a roof over one's head. I know that I probably sound foolish and naïve for wanting such things, for wanting to leave this life, when there are so many who would love to take my place, who would kill to live as I do. Oh Susan, if I am sounding like this, please forgive me. I just…I don't know, I just…I just wish I could…

…

…

…

What if I told you I am thinking about leaving Downton, _seriously_ leaving Downton, and going to…to another city…and working the rest of my days as a nurse, while also marrying a man…who many would say is "beneath me"?

…

…

…

…I suppose I just made a massive confession to you. Not that I imagine you're very surprised by this.

…

Susan, I know I can trust your discretion, and I ask you to please keep this letter a secret! Show it to no one, not even James. It's not that I think he would tell anyone, but…just for right now, I think that it's best if only you know that I'm thinking this. But…then you should also know (and hopefully assured) that this is not a rash decision. This has honestly been something on my mind for quite some time—ever since I first came to York, actually.

And now, no doubt, you are screaming at me for not telling you the whole story, which I know I must do—but you will have to be patient and wait until my next letter (I am running out of paper, and my inkwell is also starting to run low). And that's the truth! I'm not making that up! But I will say this…

Yes…Branson is more than a friend. He has been more than a friend to me for quite some time. WE HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING! Which I know is exactly what you started to think when I made that declaration.

…Other than kiss, but that's all!

Alright, alright, forgive me, Susan, I am laughing right now, I am sorry for teasing you, but…actually, that is true, he and I did kiss; the emotion after William's death became so great that I needed to see him, to feel him, and he held me and comforted me…and then we kissed. And…and it was amazing! And I promise I will go into more details about that in my next letter as well! But…he loves me…he wants me to run away with him. And…and I do love him, too. I think I always have. But…I never said anything because I didn't think it was possible, for two people like us to be together, but…these past few months, and especially after poor William's death…I can't think that way anymore. I can't let those rules of society _rule me._ I love Tom—yes, his name is Tom, did I ever tell you that? I love him…and I do want to be with him, I was just so afraid before. But…I think I'm learning to be brave.

Susan, I promise, I will tell you more (so much more!) in my next letter. But I really must end this for now, and send it on its way to Liverpool. However, if I do hear a loud shriek over the next few days, I'll know what direction to look.

All my love and best wishes to you and your family! God bless!

—Sybil


	116. A Game of Charades

_HAPPY NEW YEAR! I know, it's been quite a while since I updated this story, but now I am back and feeling inspired! This chapter features an interesting interaction between Sybil and Mary. When Mary goes to tour Haxby Park with Sir Richard in 2x06, I kept wondering how Sybil would see that; I kept thinking that this would look very "serious" in the sense that Mary and Sir Richard were truly going to get married, and how confusing it must seem, especially after all the care Mary shows Matthew, both at the hospital and at the house. So that was what gave birth to this chapter, those wonderings, as well as an opportunity to see Sybil become very passionate with her feelings on equal rights and the expectations for women, and how none of those things ever really appealed to her (at least that's how I took it). Also, this chapter continues to pave the way as to why Sybil may have felt that eloping to Gretna Green was her only option at the time. Anyway, I hope you enjoy...I'm going to try and write the next chapter in quick succession! THANKS FOR YOUR PATIENCE!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Sixteen<strong>

Sybil watched out of the corner of her eye as Mary reentered the house, handing her coat to Anna, before removing her hand and gloves and proceeding to walk up the stairs no doubt to her room. Carson would be ringing the dressing gong soon, and no doubt she was on her way to prepare. Sybil also watched as Sir Richard entered the house, handing his hat and cane to the Downton butler, his eyes never leaving Mary's figure as she ascended the staircase.

Sybil chewed on her bottom lip, wondering how the entire trip to Haxby Park had gone. Mary had announced a few days ago that both she and Sir Richard would be touring the house and grounds, as a possible future home. Sybil couldn't imagine moving into such a place; no doubt now, the house felt like a tomb! She had never been close to the Russell's, but that didn't mean she didn't feel sorry for them when they had to sell their home. Still, perhaps a more "modest living" would be better in the long run for…well, for everyone?

_That's Branson's meddling influence_, a voice in her head reprimanded. It was interesting how that voice seemed to sound like her older sister.

But it wasn't so much the fact that Mary and Sir Richard were thinking about moving into an estate that was nearly the size of Downton all by themselves (well, the two of them plus the hundreds of servants they would need to keep it running), but just…the fact that Mary was continuing this…this charade?

She had seen her sister's care of Matthew ever since Matthew had arrived at the house (before then, actually, when she thought about all the times Mary had visited him at the hospital) and…well, if truth be known, it confused her. Sybil was confused as to what Mary felt for their cousin; yes, it was clear she cared and there was affection for Matthew, but…just when she thought it was obvious as to whom her sister truly loved, something like this would happen: Sir Richard would arrive with the announcement that he and Mary would go and look at estates in the area, carrying on as if nothing had changed.

And that was what happened today. Sybil learned when she came down for breakfast (one of her rare mornings where she could have breakfast with her family since her shift would be entirely at the house that day) and learned that both Mary and Sir Richard had already left, on their way to tour several estates, but with sole intention of giving most of their time to touring Haxby.

Mary had been alone with Sir Richard all day. Sybil wondered how that had gone. What did Papa think? Or Mama? Or did they think about it at all? She doubted no one thought about it the way she had. She shook her head and went back to her work, gathering empty water glasses to her tray.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sybil spied her other sister, talking with Major Gordon again. It had been several days since she had written to Susan about the mysterious and badly injured Canadian officer. They hadn't spoken a great deal, her and Major Gordon, but he seemed decent enough; he was quiet, for the most part. He didn't talk to her or many of the other nurses, or many of the other officers, really, even amongst his own Canadians. But he did talk to Edith. Of course, Sybil had long since acknowledged Edith's gift for running and maintaining things at the Convalescent Home, and all of the officers seemed to be quite fond of her. But…there was something about Major Gordon and Edith's friendship that…for some reason…caused Sybil to worry.

She had no good reason to explain why she felt this way, it was just…a feeling. Perhaps, because, she feared for Edith's heart when the time came for Major Gordon to leave? Unlike Mary, Edith did wear her heart on her sleeve, and Sybil knew how her sister had never fully recovered, or so it seemed, since the debacle with Sir Anthony at the garden party all those years ago.

Major Gordon and Edith were looking at different picture frames and photographs on some of the shelves in the room. Edith was smiling and laughing and explaining different things to Major Gordon about the pictures, and Major Gordon would make little comments every so often that would bring an even bigger smile to Edith's face.

Sybil's heart swelled and ached at the sight. Should she say anything to her sister? It didn't feel right to go and "tattle" on Edith to one of her parents. Perhaps she was blowing this out of proportion in her mind?

Perhaps she was spending far too much time wondering about her sisters potential love lives—and not giving her own enough thought?

Well, that wasn't entirely true. She _was_ giving her own a great deal of thought. She had made her decision; she was determined to be with Tom…she just needed to figure out the logistics of her plan. And whether or not she should say anything to her family. Of course, this thought always depressed her, because her mind kept going back to that horrible conversation with Mary when she blurted everything out and told Mary about Tom's proposal (to a point) and Mary reminded her that "this isn't fairyland" and thinking such unions and the acceptance of such unions was more or less, quite "babyish".

She set the tray down for a moment, trying to gather her emotions once more. _"__Gwen…there may come a day when you and Edward are the only family I have."_ She remembered that conversation when her dear friend was visiting, and while it gave Sybil strength to know there was someone out there who was personally rooting for her and Tom, at the same time it hurt…knowing that her family very well may reject her for following her heart.

And that was the main reason as to why she wasn't visiting the garage as much as she wished. The kiss, in many ways, had sealed their fate. It was no longer a question of "if", but now a matter of "when"…and "how".

Sybil took a deep breath, told her emotions to keep calm, and picked the tray up and carried it to the cart where dishes and glasses would be taken down to the kitchens to be washed. She had rounds to make, she knew, but a clock on the mantle told her she could spare at least ten minutes, so she decided to go upstairs and see how her eldest sister was fairing…and find out what the news was about the visit to Haxby.

Mary was trying to make a decision between three dinner dresses when she gave Sybil permission to come in. "Oh good!" she said with a smile upon seeing her sister. "You can help me make up my mind."

Sybil laughed softly at this. "Our tastes in fashion have never really seen eye to eye."

"Only because I don't insist on making trousers into dresses," Mary countered with a kind smile.

Sybil smiled back and took a seat on the edge of her sister's bed, her hands folded in her lap. "So…how was the visit to Haxby?"

Mary kept her focus on the gowns. "It was good," she simply replied. "I think it makes the most sense of the estates we toured."

Sybil nodded, but only because she really didn't know what else to say. "Did you…like it?"

Mary finally turned her head to look at her, lifting a perfectly fine dark brow at her question. "Yes, of course."

_Of course?_ Sybil frowned a little at this. She didn't think Mary's first answer had an obvious "of course" sound to it.

"Well…tell me about it!"

Mary looked back at Sybil and frowned slightly. "I'm not sure there's a great deal to tell; I mean, you remember visiting the Russell's surely—"

"The only reason I was ever invited was because you were going," Sybil recalled, remembering some of the horrid teas she had to live through when she was much younger. The boys were out in yard playing cricket, and she would have longed to be out there, swinging a bat and hitting the ball, but of course "good and well-bred young ladies didn't do such things", and so instead she would sit inside and stuff one scone after another into her mouth while Mary sat perfectly poised, just like a future countess should. "But how does the place look now?" Despite the not-so-fond memories she had of Haxby, Sybil did feel sorry for the Russell's. "I mean…has it been kept well? Or will it need a great deal of repair?"

"No, no, everything seems to be fine," Mary reassured, finally making up her mind on what dress to wear for the evening and laying it out for Anna to help her with, when the dressing gong was rung. "Other than the fact that it lacks furniture and other essential things, Sir Richard is confident that he can have the place ready in less than six months."

Sybil lifted her brows at this. So…did this mean that a date had been set?

"Of course…I think that's wishful thinking on his part," Mary murmured, now looking at what jewelry to possibly wear with her gown for the evening. "I think a year from now is much more reasonable."

Sybil wasn't sure what to say to this. Try as she might, she just never really could come around to the thought of her sister married to that man. "So it's settled then?"

Mary paused and looked at her with confusion. "Settled?"

"You and Sir Richard?"

Mary's mouth fell open at the question, and she quickly turned her head back to her jewelry box. "What a silly thing to ask, Sybil," she mumbled, not looking her younger sister in the eye. "It's been settled for quite some time, and you know that."

Did she? When Matthew had come back to Downton, Mary didn't hesitate in being the one to look after him. She didn't even have to be told, she was there and ready to wheel him through the gardens, to sit with him, to read to him, to do anything that would cheer him up, if it were possible. Her sister had dedicated herself to making Matthew happy…just as Tom had promised to devote each and every waking minute to her happiness.

Everything Sybil had seen exchanged between her sister and cousin still screamed that love was still there, that the love they shared had never completely gone. But…Sybil had to remind herself that Matthew couldn't…

Poor Matthew. Poor Mary. And yes, even poor Lavinia. Yes, Sybil was still confused about who she felt the most sorry for in all of this.

"Have we heard anything from Lavinia?" She was surprised by the question, even though she had been the one to ask it. It just sort of…bubbled up, suddenly.

Mary looked surprised too. "I…no," she answered, before returning her attentions to her jewelry box. "No, I haven't heard anything. And…well, to be honest, I don't really care."

Sybil frowned at this. That was rather harsh. When Lavinia was here last, it had seemed that both she and Mary were getting on well enough, despite the awkward situation it no doubt was for them. And when Matthew had decided to end the engagement, she had learned later that Mary had gone to comfort Lavinia, that she even had gone to Matthew the next day (the day of Isobel's return) to find out if he was sure he was doing the right thing. In some ways, it seemed that person who supported Matthew and Lavinia's marriage the most…of all people…was Mary.

So why the sudden coldness now?

"Do you really think it's over?"

"Sybil," Mary groaned, turning to face her and looking rather irritated. "I told you, _I don't care_. Matthew and Lavinia are none of my concern, nor should they be any of yours!" she turned her attentions, once again to her jewelry box. For heaven's sakes, hadn't she chosen the piece she wanted? "They're both adults capable of making their own decisions," she muttered under her breath.

For some reason, this struck a nerve with Sybil. And she felt her hands ball into fists. "Oh I see…" she began, her voice not even bothering to hide her irritation. "Matthew and Lavinia are fully capable of making their own decisions, whereas I am just a child to be coddled and told what to do!"

Mary rose to her full height and turned and looked at her with the most incredulous expression. "What on earth…? Sybil…what are you talking about?"

She was being foolish, she knew that, but…whenever the idea of the future popped into her head, she just felt intense anger roll up through her body, perhaps because she couldn't stop thinking about how she was being forced to trade the love and approval of her family for a future and life with the man she loved.

"I know what all of you think; that my nursing is 'just a phase', and once the War is over so shall it; but what if I don't want to stop being a nurse? What if I want to keep working? Because truly, Mary, for the first time in my life I feel like I have purpose—"

"Sybil, don't be absurd!" Mary snapped, looking just as irritated as Sybil was feeling. "Your life _has_ purpose, and _always_ has!"

"Oh really?" Sybil rose to her feet and looked at her sister head on, her hands falling to her hips. "And what is that, exactly? Sitting and waiting for some gentleman to call on Mama and Papa and ask for my hand in marriage?"

"Oh for goodness sake," Mary groaned. But before she could say more, Sybil quickly continued.

"Mary, I'm not like you. I have never been satisfied with the idea of one day living and keeping and being mistress of some grand estate! I never wanted to be a countess or anything of the sort, I never—"

"Oh God forbid!" Mary muttered, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "A fate worse than death, truly!"

Sybil groaned. Now she had touched on one of Mary's nerves.

"Yes, heaven forbid someone be doomed to such a life," her sister grumbled. "Heaven forbid that a woman have a lovely house, and money and a title, how droll, how selfish!"

"Mary—"

"Never mind that such houses provide for so many," Mary cut off. "Never mind that such estates not only make villages prosper, but bring a great deal of good to the country. Providing jobs and opportunity and all those things you're always going on and on about whenever you get into one of your political tirades."

"That's not fair—"

"You're right! It's not!" Mary snapped. "Maybe it's not the life you want Sybil, but it is for me! And I resent that you always go on and belittle it! You always sneer and look down your nose whenever I, or Edith for that matter, talk about one day wanting to be mistress of a fine house, and run such a place. Oh yes, it's all very good for you to stand there on your soap box and talk about equal rights for women and the injustices done to women because they are denied the same opportunities as men, but what if a woman doesn't want those opportunities? What if a woman is happy and satisfied with simply being a wife and running a house? Or is that not allowed because that doesn't have 'purpose', as you see it?"

"IF THAT IS WHAT YOU WANT, THEN SO BE IT!" Sybil was practically shouting. "BUT THAT IS _NOT_ WHAT _I _WANT!"

"AND _WHAT DO_ _YOU_ _WANT_, SYBIL?"

She threw her hands up into the air in pure exasperation. "HAVEN'T YOU BEEN LISTENING?"

Mary glared at her; it was a dark look. And one full of warning. "If this is about Branson…"

"NO!" Sybil growled. "THIS IS ABOUT _ME_, AND WHAT I WANT!" And Tom was a part of that now.

"So you want to be a nurse for the rest of your life, is that it?" Mary asked, although her tone was far from sincere. "And what then? How will you live? Where will you live?" Mary challenged.

In Dublin. Most likely in a flat; perhaps one day they would have a bungalow?

"You haven't thought any of this through, have you?" Mary asked, her eyes boring into her like two hot coals.

Sybil lifted her chin. Oh the things she wanted to scream. How she wanted to tell Mary that yes, she had been thinking it through, that was all she had been doing, really, since Tom first proposed to her in York! But she knew that she couldn't. Not unless she wanted her father to throw Tom out without pay or a reference, and lock her up like Rapunzel in a tower.

"Sybil…" Mary began, her voice sounding a little calmer, but there was still an edge to it. "I commend you, I really do, on everything you have done for the soldiers and for the cause; you have certainly earned your place in heaven, and there is no doubt about that. And you have brought great honor to this house and to the family."

"But only as long as there is a War going on," Sybil muttered.

"Darling, this just isn't done! You are a daughter of the Earl of Grantham, you are a Lady! And Ladies do not work as nurses or in any such job! And that's not me who says that, that's the world! I know that's harsh to you, but that's the way it is!"

Sybil was fighting the tears that were burning in her eyes. But at these words her head snapped up at her sister and she glared at her, her own look one full of darkness and warning. "Just like Ladies do not inherit estates or titles or their family's inheritance."

Mary looked as if someone had slapped her. Yet she lifted her chin and arched a beautiful, haughty brow. "Exactly," she whispered. "It's unfair…but that's the way the world is."

Sybil shook her head. "Only if we let it," she walked towards the door then and gripped the knob, her anger causing her body to shake and tremble all over. She would not be joining her family for dinner tonight. "And I for one REFUSE to let it dictate who I am and what I am capable of doing!" She opened the door, prepared to leave…but paused once again and looked at her sister. "I do hope you're happy Mary, I mean that. I hope you are happy with your decisions in regards to a house and husband and everything that you want. That's all I have ever wanted for you, I mean that," she forced a smile, despite the tears that were beginning to fall. "But I know I will not be happy if I do not follow my heart—and if that means having to be cast off from the world for breaking its rules…then so be it."

She slammed the door in her wake and quickly fled down the hall, her sister's voice filling her ears with questions about what she had meant.


	117. 1918: A Fifth Letter to Gwen

_This is a much shorter chapter than the last, and really is meant to remind us what's going on in the house right now, and how it will foreshadow some future events at Downton, as well as to show the distance that has been developing between Tom and Sybil, and how her worries and anxieties about the future, especially in regards to her family's reaction is affecting Tom. BUT a great deal more about that will be examined in the next chapter, which will be that famous scene where she visits him the garage and asks for him to wait, and we have the beautiful "I'd wait forever" line...so that's coming next! In the meantime, hope you enjoy this letter to Gwen, and thanks so much for reading and reviewing and for your wonderful faith and patience as this story continues!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Seventeen<strong>

Dear Gwen,

A month has nearly passed since your visit here, and the house in which you arrived is not the one you left—meaning that the closeness which all of us seemed to have formed after William's death has gone away, and now we're all snapping at each other like a bunch of angry dogs.

There's a new housemaid here named Jane (a war widow) and she's trying to help Daisy understand what she's entitled as William's widow, but Daisy will not accept the pension that's being offered, she keeps going on and on about how she wants no part of it, even to the point of yelling it through the halls so that Mrs. Patmore, wherever she is, can hear her. In some ways it's a miracle that neither Mr. Carson nor Mrs. Hughes have reprimanded her for these…"tantrums".

Mrs. Patmore's words, not mine.

I honestly don't know what to make of Daisy's decision. I keep thinking William wanted this for her, but at the same time, I admire her for not wanting to take the army's charity. I've been keeping myself out of the entire thing, which is probably wise.

Yes, we seem to be having our very own war, brewing here below stairs.

Daisy will barely speak with Mrs. Patmore; I think she blames her for pushing her and encouraging her to accept William. I wish I had your faith Gwen; I mean, I do think you're right, that Daisy loved William, but in her own way and in her own time. And I fear that this urge to have her be William's sweetheart and then to agree to an engagement and marry him before he—

I fear it's done more damage than good. And so we all continue to suffer under the dark cloud that has been left by William's death.

But that's not the only war that's brewing, Gwen. There's another, and you may be surprised by who it concerns.

A few days ago, it was noted that food was starting to go missing in the larder. We all know Mrs. Patmore's feelings about who keeps tabs on the store cupboard. Well, she noticed items missing, and reported it to Mr. Carson. Mr. Carson believed it wasn't a miscalculation, but rather a thief. I only learned about all this today when I was in the kitchens and overheard the two of them arguing as they were coming back down the stairs. The apparent "thief" is none other…than Mrs. Hughes!

Now of course Mrs. Hughes has good reasons, could anyone doubt them? She wasn't "stealing" food, not as I see it, but rather she was "helping" someone, a…a former worker, who's fallen on hard times. Mrs. Hughes is the embodiment of Christian charity and always has been, but unfortunately I don't think everyone will see eye to eye on that. She was caught red-handed by Mr. Carson himself. Who then reported her to her Ladyship! Mr. Carson took Mrs. Hughes to her Ladyship, and told her Ladyship what Mrs. Hughes was doing! I…in all honesty Gwen, I'm just shocked by the fact that Mr. Carson would do that to Mrs. Hughes of all people. I know you and I both joked once about the two of them perhaps…being _more_ than what they let on, but…Lord, after seeing them both fuming at each other today, the harsh words and the cold stares—it's amazing Mr. Carson is still capable of walking; I would have thought he would be frozen in place, based on the look she gave him this afternoon!

Her Ladyship was kind in her response. She doesn't blame Mrs. Hughes, not for trying to help, even though I'm sure she wishes someone had come to her sooner, if help were needed before Mrs. Hughes did what she did. And I don't think Mr. Carson wanted Mrs. Hughes punished, not like that, certainly—in fact, if she somehow had been sacked, I don't think Mr. Carson would have forgiven himself (nor would I, if I'm being honest). But the fact that he felt it needed to be reported…_and_ that very second…oh Gwen; I dread what the next few days are going to be like down here. Thank God I have my own cottage to retreat to!

If Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes' battle of cold stares and heated words don't drive me mad, it will be Mrs. Patmore's complaints about rationing. And should I be worried? Not about Mrs. Patmore's complaints, but about the fact that Thomas had this…gleam…in his eyes, whenever she goes on and on about the subject. But then again, if a day comes when neither he nor Miss O'Brien is plotting, then that is a sure sign that the apocalypse has arrived.

And…sadly, I don't know the details, but it sounds as if Bates' wife is making things difficult for him again. I really thought this was all settled, now that he was back at Downton; I thought that the entire thing was done and dusted. I have never met this woman, but based upon everything I've heard from Daisy, Mrs. Patmore, Mrs. Hughes, and even Anna, she sounds like a vampire who longs to do nothing more than suck the life and happiness out of others. Anna is always putting a brave face on whenever a letter arrives with Bates' name on it, but the pain she is trying hide is obvious to anyone who looks. I wish there was more I could do, but at the same time I know it's not my place to pry. I trust you, Gwen, with keeping this news between the two of us, but if she does reveal anything in her next letter to you, meaning anything where there's something I can do to help, please let me know? Until then, Jane, who finds the Anna and Bates' romance fascinating, is doing what she can to cheer Anna up. I think Jane is doing what she can to cheer anyone up, be it Daisy, Anna, or even his Lordship. I know, that may sound strange, but I have noticed on a few occasions when I'm in the servant's hall, how Jane sometimes asks if his Lordship is happy, before commenting that he seems...lonely. I've never given the thought much notice, really, although maybe I should considering…well, considering…the possibility…of…

…

…

Well…we shall see, won't we?

…

I'm afraid that's all I have to report. And…no, nothing has happened. Nothing more than what I told you when you visited.

The truth is…

…

…

The truth is, actually that…that we haven't really seen much of each other since you were here. Maybe it's because of her shifts; there has been an influx of patients recently, especially from Canada. Maybe it's because there's talk that the War may finally be over, and therefore the house is busier than before. His Lordship is having me drive him back and forth to Ripon, Manchester, and York as often as possible. And maybe it has something to do with Mr. Matthew now residing here…but…but whatever the reasons, she and I haven't really talked a great deal, not since…well, certainly not since that night.

I don't know, Gwen. I…I confess, I'm starting to worry if perhaps I was wrong; I mean, I told you that when she and I kissed, even though the words were never spoken, I _felt_ her love, I felt her affection for me, I felt my feelings being returned. But…maybe I was wrong? Maybe…maybe she's scared? I don't know, I mean, I told you that she had revealed to me that I was first man to ever kiss her, and…I confess, I did let my passions get the better of me—_NOT TOO FAR_, mind you, but…perhaps I frightened her? She did ask me to stop while we were kissing…oh God, if I've ruined this now, Gwen, now when we're so close, SO CLOSE, I'll never forgive myself. GOD! Of all the…hot-headed…no, that's the problem, I _wasn't_ thinking, at least not with my—

…

…

…

Well, I…I don't mean…I just…

…

God, I can't believe I'm even writing about this, just…ignore all of this, please, if that's possible.

…

I don't know what I'm asking, Gwen, I…I mean, I know this seems odd, writing to you about all of this, and I apologize if this feels burdensome. I'm not asking you to reveal anything Sybil has told you, if she has told you anything…

…

…Has she told you anything?

Never mind! No, no, it's not my place to know, it's not even my place to ask, I…I'll be fine, truly, I'm just…feeling anxious, that's all, only because we haven't really spoken, but…but I'm sure it's nothing, nothing to worry about at all. Right?

…

…

I hope if anything, my letter has provided you with some entertainment as I become a nervous wreck in my second-guessing.

I pray that everything is well with you, Edward, and the children. I look forward, as always, to your next letter, and hopefully the next time I write, I will have good news to report and peace will not only have descended upon Downton, but perhaps…if we're lucky…the world as well.

God bless you,

—Tom


	118. I'll Wait Forever

_Finally got this chapter finished after working on it for several days! Not quite sure why it took me so long, but I know I wanted to get it right and I do feel satisfied with it now :oP I know for many of us Sybil/Tom fans, it got frustrating for how long and "dragged out" it seemed to take for our ship to *finally* get together; I like to think that there were good, legit reasons, and so tried to explore that here (I've tried explore that with all these chapters, but hopefully you'll see what I mean in this one) ANYWAY, this has the famous "I'd wait forever" garage scene. With some extra juiciness ;o) HOPE YOU ENJOY! Thanks for reading and reviewing as always! Oh, and a special thanks and dedication to **Goldenminij-17** who's been ill these last few weeks, but who has been a trooper in the fandom...get well soon, sweetie!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Eighteen<strong>

She needed to see him. Simply because the absence they both had been enduring as of late was getting to be rather ridiculous. And she knew she had no one to blame but herself. Her fear, her frustrations, and her sorrow in accepting the reality that her family would never consent to her choices, be they in what she wanted to do with her life, or who she wanted to marry, had been weighing so heavily on her, and if truth be told, what she wanted more than anything was to go to Tom, wrap her arms around him as she had done that night in his cottage, and simply unleash all these emotions. No doubt she would cry, perhaps shout and curse, and…maybe, he would put his arms around her and hold her and soothe her as he had done that night as well.

And maybe he would kiss her again?

Yes, she would like that very, very much.

But she doubted he would want to. She had a feeling that she wasn't one of his favorite people right now. And could she blame him, really? No. She would be upset too, if he had avoided her over these past few weeks the way she had been avoiding him.

_Not avoiding, really, just…just trying to deal with all these bloody frustrations!_ Of course, wouldn't the burden be a great deal easier to bear with him? She shouldn't keep secrets from him—after all, he was going to be her husband some day! And she wanted a very honest marriage, a marriage of equals, where they wouldn't hide their feelings, the good or the bad—they would face the world and all its hardships and blessings together. Yes, if she was going to be married, then only that sort of marriage would do. And really…how long had it been since she stopped seeing Tom as a "servant" and began seeing him as her equal? As her…partner?

_"Because my equal is here, and ___my likeness…"__ Her heart had been quoting that piece from Jane Eyre for quite some time now.

Yes, she needed to seek him out, both for her own peace of mind, as well as (and more importantly) to assure him that…that she still loved him. Even though she hadn't spoken the words yet.

_Why not? Why don't you tell him that you love him? Why don't you reveal everything? You said so yourself that you want this to be a marriage of equals, where you both are honest with each other! So why not tell him that not only do you love him, but you've been in love with him since…_

How long had it been? _Since the moment he handed me those pamphlets…_

No, before that. _Since the moment he held the car door open for me…_

No…perhaps even before that. _Since I first saw him coming out of Papa's library, all the way across the corridor, and we held one another's gazes, just for a moment…_

She had never been one to embrace the notion of "love at first sight", but…while she may not have been aware that love was blooming in that first moment of their eyes meeting, the seed had clearly been planted.

Sybil bit her lip and gazed out a window where she could see the garage. He was in there, she knew. She had caught a glimpse of him earlier, opening the door to the garage to let in some air. It was an unusually warm autumn day, and she swallowed the dry lump in her throat as she watched loosen his tie and collar buttons, before pausing to roll up his sleeves to his elbows, revealing the wonderful muscles she knew that lay beneath all that fabric. Muscles that she had once felt beneath her fingers…that had once held her close to his body…

"Are you alright, Nurse Crawley?"

Sybil practically jumped as one of the other nurses passed her, looking a little confused. "W-w-w-what?" she stammered.

The other nurse gazed at her with some concern. "You look awfully flushed…I hope you're not coming down with something?"

"Oh…I…no, no, I um…no, I'm fine," she reassured the nurse, before turning and quickly resuming her duties, trying her best to keep her eyes from the window and her mind from Tom and his muscular forearms and broad shoulders and chest.

…As if that were possible.

_Oh God, how will I be able to stand and talk to him if that is all I'm thinking about? _ It was getting worse, these…thoughts. She had had dreams before about Branson, but…ever since the kiss, those dreams had become…a great deal more detailed. Now she knew how it felt to feel his lips, his tongue, his body, his—

Yes, there was very little for her imagination to wonder now. Except of course how he looked na—

Oh God, she was done for.

She tried to make herself busy as she went about her rounds. There would be several moments during her shift where she could sneak away to the garage. But first thing she needed to do was get her emotions under control. As much as she may wish to fling herself into his arms and feel his lips against hers again…she knew that she couldn't do that. At least not yet.

While moving about the hall with a water pitcher, a different sight caught her eye outside. Mary was wheeling Matthew once again, as she often did on these pleasant afternoons. Sybil sighed and shook her head, forcing herself to turn away from the image. Honestly, she needed to stop questioning her sister's actions, even if she disagreed with them. If their last argument had taught Sybil anything, it was that both she and Mary were adults who were fully capable of making their own decisions…as well as living with the consequences of those decisions. She hated it, but Sybil knew that the consequence of her decision was losing her family's approval…and possibly their love. As for her sister, the consequence Sybil believed Mary would be facing was the opposite of her own; whereas Sybil would lose her aristocratic life for the man she loved, Mary would lose the man Sybil still, very much believed, she loved. And it was painful to see her sister and Matthew together like this; painful to know what Mary was losing, all because she was too stubborn to admit what was in her heart.

She turned away from the window and continued with her task of refilling any glasses for the officers that were in the hall. She traveled from the hall to other rooms on the main floor, including the drawing room where she happened to overhear a conversation between two men.

"Whatever happened to Lady Edith? We used to see her all the time—always checking on us, always smiling. She has a pretty smile; confess I miss her!"

"Me too," his friend agreed. "But she spends all her time now with that Canadian; the one that looks like a mummy."

The other officer snorted. "How do you like that? The man's got no face, yet he somehow manages to steal one of the prettiest girls here; it ain't right, I say."

"As if you had a chance with her," his friend teased, before encouraging the other officer to resume their game of checkers.

Sybil couldn't help but frown at this conversation, and because of the officers mentioning her sister (she knew Edith was a favorite amongst a majority of the officers) but because of their revelation that her sister was, once again, spending time with Major Gordon. What was it about the man that seemed to fascinate her sister? This was more than Edith being kind to an officer; there was something…she didn't know what it was, but yes, there was something beneath the surface of it all. And for some reason…it didn't sit well with Sybil. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but she had been noticing this…change…in her sister, ever since Major Gordon's arrival. And while she wanted her sister to be happy, she wasn't sure if Major Gordon could be…trusted, in keeping that.

_But how is that any different from your feelings to Mary? You cannot continue to play referee to your sisters; you need to let them choose the paths they wish to take just as you wish to be left to your own._

Sybil set down the water pitcher and groaned. No, she hadn't planned or thought about _everything_ she would have to give up with her decision. It was one thing to realize you would be turning your back on being invited to elegant teas, attending balls, or buying a new frock every other week. It was quite another when you realized that not only would you quite possibly never see your family again, but that you would also have to stand by and watch them live and move on without you.

Perhaps now she understood Mary's frustrations?

"Jenny?" she turned to one of the village girls who had volunteered to help at the Convalescent Home, and who happened to be walking past. "I'm going to slip outside for a bit of air."

"Of course, Nurse Crawley!" the young girl said with a smile, taking Sybil's water pitcher. "It is a bit stuffy in here, ain't it?"

Sybil nodded and thanked Jenny, before quickly disappearing out one of the patio doors that led outside (the same doors she had slipped out the night of William's death), not really wanting to bother going downstairs to the servant's hall, and certainly not wanting to slip out the front door where Mary may see her. Not that it mattered; they hadn't really spoken to each other since that fight, other than "please pass the salt" at the dinner table.

Her destination was obvious as she began to walk towards the garage. But with every step she began to grow more and more nervous. She hadn't really thought about what she would say, she just knew she needed to go and see him, she needed to be there, in his presence, and…and talk to him, like they used to do. Of all the things she missed the most, it was their talks. _Will it be like before? When we're married and living in Dublin?_ She hoped so. She hoped they would have many of their old discussions, be it about politics or books or…well, really, anything, just…so long as she didn't have to pretend and play the part of "lady" anymore.

_I'll get a job as a nurse, and come home and make him dinner—oh Lord, I need to ask for more cooking lessons from Mrs. Patmore! I wonder if Tom can cook? Perhaps we can help with dinner. But I am determined to do some housework! I mean, I don't want that to be my ONLY job, certainly, but…I can do it, I can tend to a house, and without servants! Yes, I can! Little does Mary know that I too want a house to be mistress of…just of a different sort. Tom and I will have a flat in Dublin…and then maybe, in a few years' time, we'll get a bungalow—or a nice brownstone! But we'll keep it tidy and have a library of our own with all sorts of books! And we'll spend our evenings in the library, each sipping tea and reading…and there will be a fireplace, and we'll each have our shoes off and warming them by the fire…perhaps we'll have a couch instead of two chairs? And…and we can…sit close? Perhaps share a blanket? Yes, I like that idea…sitting close, perhaps his arm will drape over me, and I can lean against his chest…I like that idea…oh…oh Lord…what about…the bedroom? I mean…I mean there won't be two bedrooms as there are here, not that Mama and Papa observes such rules. So…we will share a bed._

She came to a sudden stop, both because of the thought, and because she was standing just a few feet now from the garage. She swallowed the lump in her throat. Of all the things to pop into her head, just moments before she would enter and see him! No, this wasn't the first time her mind wandered to the subject of her and Tom's sleeping arrangements, but…this would be the first time to talk to him after kissing him, after _feeling_ him and now having an understanding of…of what it might be like, to feel _all of him_, in a bed of their own—

She was shaken from her thoughts by the sound of a wrench banging in the garage. She bit her lip and craned her neck, noticing he was under a car, doing some sort of repair work. _You can do this; you can do this, go and talk to him you silly, stupid girl! _ She took a deep breath, and began to stride into the garage as if it were any other day.

Only it wasn't of course. It was a day after many, many days—after a night they had kissed.

_Oh God, what should I say? "Hello?" No, that sounds far too…I don't know, but it sounds far too something! Should I start with an apology? No, that doesn't sound right either. A comment about the weather? "My, it is rather warm for October, don't you think?" No, no, that doesn't sound right either. Oh God, say something, ANYTHING!_

"I wish I knew how an engine worked."

_Oh honestly, that's the best you can do?_ Sybil inwardly groaned. She was a horrible flirt, always had been. She didn't have Mary's skill at coquettishness, and Edith was excellent at the soft, blushing giggle. _If there were a hole right here in the middle of the floor, I would throw myself down it._

Still, she watched as Tom slowly began to pull himself out from under the car…and…gracious was that a…a _smirk_ on his face?

"I can teach you if you like?" he replied, rising from where he had lying, and Sybil swallowed as she watched him rise to his full height. Not too tall, but just tall enough. Just perfect, really. And yes…very broad. She couldn't help but notice the bit of skin that was exposed at his throat and chest from where he had unbuttoned his shirt. Nor the muscles of his forearms now that she was standing so close. _Tom Branson reminds me of one those marbled statues I saw in London during my season...oh Lord, I should say something! He's waiting for a reply!_

"That's Edith's territory," she murmured, blushing and smiling up at him, still nibbling her bottom lip nervously, but feeling a little more confidence return. _I am…flirting, aren't I? I never think about flirting, so I don't even know if I'm doing it right, but…but I must be doing something right for him to reply and smile at me as he just did! I mean, he's not shouting accusations at me for not seeing him—_

"I thought you were avoiding me?"

Her smile disappeared instantly. She watched him walk over to a table where his tools lay and her heart followed, as well as her feet.

"Of course not!" she was quick to insist, nearly bumping into him when he stopped to turn and face her. She was thrown by the sudden movement, and quickly took a step back, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks as she remembered how it had felt, being so close to him. Still, her eyes looked up at him and she chewed on her bottom lip as she prayed he would be able to see and understand how much she cared for him, despite the lack of communication they had had over the past few weeks.

He began to wipe some of his tools with a rag, but the look he gave her wasn't one that held sweet understanding or relief, but rather…disappointed longing. And his question confirmed what she feared. "But you haven't come up with an answer yet, have you?"

She felt so ashamed. She couldn't bear to look at him, to see that disappointment, and quickly turned her head to her feet. "Not yet, I'm afraid," she mumbled, wetting her lips in a nervous gesture, and swallowing the emotional lump she could feel rising in her throat. She hated doing this, she hated having to make him—both of them—wait like this. But…the truth of the matter was, despite her determination to accept his proposal and go with him and be his wife, she still needed time.

Not because she wasn't sure how she felt about him; she loved him more now than ever before. But because…she wasn't sure how to say goodbye to everything else. And it had nothing to do with the lifestyle she had grown up in, but with her family, her friends, her homeland, even. She would be saying goodbye to all of this, and…even though she believed she was ready to fully embrace this new life with Tom as her husband…she still clung to the hope that maybe her sister's words weren't true; that this wasn't "fairyland", but that the possibility of "them all having tea together" wasn't so far-fetched as Mary made it sound that day.

If she were completely honest with herself, it was for this reason as to why she wasn't prepared to drop everything and marry him now. She still had hope. She didn't simply want to "cross the Rubicon"; she wanted to build a bridge.

_The world is only unfair if we let it be…_

She lifted her eyes and noticed how he had gone back to cleaning his hands and his tools. He looked…resigned. As if he hadn't expected any change, and it broke her heart, fearing he doubted her affection. _But then, what signs have I really given him? Yes, we kissed, but…it's been weeks since that even happened!_ She took a deep breath and spoke what was in her heart, hoping and praying that this little answer she had, while by no means perfect, could restore his faith in her at least a little.

"I know you want to play your part in Ireland's troubles," she began. He didn't necessarily look at her, but he did tilt his head towards her, a clear sign that he was listening. "And I respect that!" she also added, glad that he was looking at her now. She felt it important that he know that she was aware that he was putting his life and his dreams on hold because of her. "But…" she hated this next part, but she knew it needed to be said. "I…I just can't think about it all until the war is over…" _Oh how pathetic I sound_, she thought. _How horribly unfeeling and pathetic I must sound to him. _ It genuinely broke her heart to see him nod his head at her words, a gesture that seemed to say, "I've heard this before," and while he didn't attempt to argue with her…that was just it. He _didn't_ attempt to argue with her. He just…accepted her answer as…well, nothing really. Nothing…new or different to this mindless and endless emotional roundabout they both seemed to be currently trapped in.

"It won't be long now!" she quickly added, her eyes never leaving his face. He seemed to pause in wiping his tools and glanced at her, as if waiting to see if she was going to say anything further, give him some "sign" as to what she meant about it "not being long now", a "timeframe" if you will.

The sad truth was she didn't have a timeframe. She had told him until the War was over, but who knew when that would be? Tomorrow? A week from now? A month? Oh God, another year? And…and what if she needed longer than that? _I'm a horrible person, _she found herself shouting inside_. I'm an ugly, awful person, and completely selfish! He's been waiting…how long? Too long, really. Far too long for some…some…stupid girl like me! He deserves better…and yet God help me, I don't want to give him up, even if it is what's best for him; I'm just too selfish to let him go!_

She had no right to ask him this, none at all. But…despite the tears that burning in her throat and the backs of her eyes, she swallowed and asked in a soft voice the closest thing she could give him right now to a "yes", "So…will you wait?"

He put down the rag he was holding and turned his body to face her. Sybil felt her breath catch as she looked at him stand and face her, her eyes moving down and taking in his broad shoulders, his muscular arms, his chest…oh God, she could see his chest hair peeking through the top of his shirt! Her cheeks flooded with color, and he made a slight moment, as if…as if he were going to come towards her, and she knew that if one of them took simply one, small step…they would be touching, chest to chest.

_Is he…is he going to…to kiss me again?_ Her eyes flew to his, not sure what to do or say, not even sure if she remembered how to breathe! But once her gaze was locked with his, she couldn't look away, she could even blink. His eyes were so intense, so focused…and he said, in a strong, clear voice that left no doubt to his feelings, "I'd wait forever."

_Oh God._ Sybil actually released a long, shaky breath at this.

"_I'd wait forever…"_

Her heart and her head would be repeating those words over and over as the day—no, as…as her life, really, went on.

_He means it too._ _He's not simply trying to "spout romantic poetry"; no…he truly means it. He…I don't know why, but…but he believes I'm worth waiting for…_

She felt like crying right then and there. Both out of sheer relief and happiness, as well as out of shame for what she believed were her "unworthiness" of such devotion and constancy. She wasn't quite sure how she managed to do it, but somehow she found her voice and answered back, "I'm not asking for forever; just a few more weeks." No…he had waited long enough. As beautiful and as sweet as such a declaration from him was, she refused to make him wait another year…or another six months. Even if the War lasted far longer than what Dr. Clarkson and everyone else seemed to be saying, she knew she couldn't make either of them wait that much longer.

_The New Year_, she thought to herself. _1919._ _That is the year. I swear to God and to myself, right now…no matter what happens, I will leave with Tom, and we will be married…in 1919._ And God give her strength, she prayed it would be in the early part of the year as well.

He was…smiling at her now. That look of disappointment, of…hopelessness that he had been wearing earlier was gone completely now. Instead, she saw…well, she saw what she could only pray was in fact…hope. Hope and…belief.

_He believes me. _

The thought filled her with such elation that she was so tempted to throw her arms around him and…and…and push her lips against his again.

But she didn't, even though she dearly wanted to.

She swallowed and took another step back. "I…I should go," she murmured, a bit of a blush on her cheek, but her heart soaring as it once again repeated the words, _"I'd wait forever…"_

She had just turned on her heel and was about to take a step back towards the garage door, when his voice stopped her suddenly, by saying, "I was worried that maybe I had…scared you away for good."

She turned and looked at him, her brow furrowed with confusion at his words. "Scared me?"

He nodded, and she thought she noticed the hint of another…smirk.

"Because of how...intense I was…" he held her gaze, his eyes darkening slightly as he spoke, "…when we kissed."

She literally had to reach out and grip the edge of the Renault he had just been working on to keep her balance. Memories of that kiss flooded back, as they often did whenever she was allowed a second to let her mind wander. Memories of how his lips felt, how warm and how soft and yet how firm they were. Memories of his tongue…how he entered her mouth, how he licked her, how ran it across and along the length of her tongue, before drawing it deeply into his own mouth. Memories of how his lips and tongue kissed more than just her mouth, but her cheeks, her chin, her throat…her neck…her ears. Oh gracious, he had found so many pleasure points she wasn't even aware she possessed! Memories of his hands…how they had stroked her hair…held her face…clutched at her body, her back, her waist…her rump. How they squeezed her there, bringing her into contact with…with _him_.

Oh Lord…memories of how he felt. Strong, solid…and hard. Yes…yes, she remembered feeling _that_, very much.

"N-n-n-no…" she stammered, before coughing as a means to cover up her bashfulness. "No, you…you didn't scare me."

He smiled at this…and began to come closer to her. "I'm glad…" he murmured, his beautiful brogue sounding much…thicker…and deeper…than usual. Her nails were practically digging into the side of the car. "Careful," he chuckled, noticing how she was gripping the Renault. "You don't want to leave any scratches."

_Oh he is much more of a master at this game than I am!_ She was such a pitiful and pathetic flirt, whereas he truly knew how to make her toes curl and her chest pant.

Her hand released the car as if it were a hot coal, and before she realized what had happened, she found that she had backed into a wall of the garage…and he was still coming towards her. _Like the big bad wolf, ready to devour his prey…_

The thought wasn't an unpleasant one, she had to admit.

"So…" he continued…until he was just a foot away from her. "Does that mean you…liked the kiss?"

She stared up at him, that lump now lodged in her throat, and more or less preventing her from speaking in a normal voice where she didn't squeak. _He seems so much taller now, in front of me like this._ Yes, he was practically looming over her, it seemed.

"Sybil?"

He was waiting for her answer, but she honestly didn't know if she could speak. So instead, she simply nodded her head.

He smiled again, and she watched with bated breath as he began to lean in…until his arm moved up and his palm flattened against the wall…just next to her head, and he began to close the distance between them—not that there was that much distance to close.

"I'm glad," he murmured, his head leaning in…and his nose nuzzling the edge of her headscarf, just over her left temple. "Because I liked it too."

_Oh God._ Her eyes closed as she breathed his scent in—such a…a masculine scent! A strange combination of soap, type-writer ink, and yes, a little bit of motor oil. And yet…they were not off-putting scents, not at all. No…they were very…Tom. And she loved that. And she loved how his lips were grazing the side of her face…and how his other hand, the one that wasn't supporting his weight, was running lazy circles up and down the length of her right arm.

"I've dreamt about that kiss…" he whispered in her ear.

_Me too_, she wanted to say.

"Even when I'm awake, I dream about it," he whispered.

_Yes…yes, so do I…_

"I've wanted to kiss you again ever since…"

She opened her eyes then and turned her face just slightly, now seeing his only a few inches away. _"Then why don't you?"_ she wanted to say. _"Kiss me, again, just like last time…only make it last forever. I don't want it stop, ever."_ She tilted her face just slightly…and closed her eyes a little…and waited…waited with parted lips, waited to feel their smoothness, their sweetness, their warmth and firmness against her own once more…

But instead, she felt them not on her mouth, but against her cheek.

Her eyes flew open then, and she looked at him with confusion as he drew his face away. His gaze was tender, and unlike before, where it seemed to be dark and seductive, it was now…happy and content. And loving. Yes, she wanted to believe that was what his eyes were dancing with: Love.

"And so we shall…" he murmured, taking another step back, dropping his arms away from the wall, from her side, until he was another step away. "The next time we kiss…will be on the day you give me your answer."

It was taking every ounce of her being not to pout just then.

But…it was a fair point. And as much as she wanted to launch herself at him, grab his face and force him to bring his lips back down to hers once again, she knew that this was the right thing to do. And…as much as she hated to admit it, it was also the fair thing to do. And perhaps, just perhaps, it was his revenge on her for making him wait all this time. The thought did suddenly occur to her that perhaps this was his "bait" in luring her to give him her decision. Oh the tricky little Irish devil! And yet…she couldn't help but smile at that, despite her somewhat flustered state.

"Very well," she murmured, straightening herself and brushing her hands on her uniform, as if she too had just finished tinkering with the Renault. "Then…I say we shake hands, Mr. Branson."

He lifted an amused eyebrow at this, but grinned and nodded his head, extending his hand to take hers and giving it a good, hearty shake, before releasing it. But not without running his thumb in a tantalizing way across her knuckles. Indeed, he was _very_ good at this game; she would need to practice and perfect her own skills in leaving him breathless.

"So…" he cleared his throat and tried to look ever the "professional" chauffeur. "Will there be anything else I can do for you, milady?"

She gave him a look, but instead of swatting him (which was her first instinct) she lifted her nose in the air and gave her best impression of her grandmother, "No Branson, that will be all, thank you."

He grinned and bowed his head. "Very good, milady. I will bid you…good day."

She found herself giggling a little, but then that giggle began to fade as she realized that yes, she should turn and return to the house before Nurse Daniels or anyone else noticed she was missing for a rather long period of time.

_Soon_, she promised herself. _Soon this charade will be over. Remember…1919._

"Good day to you too…" she said with a small curtsy…reminiscent of the one in which she had given the Queen during her presentation all those years ago. "…Tom" she added, enjoying how his name sounded…as well as the apparent effect it seemed to have on him, whenever she spoke it. _Perhaps I'm not so bad at flirting as I thought?_

She turned and left, before the temptation to linger and throw the deal, to which they had both just shaken hands to, completely away.

It wasn't perfect…but it was a bright spot on a rather cloudy period. She felt her hope restored as well, especially as his words continued to repeat over and over in her mind and on her heart…

"_I'd wait forever…"_

But she had meant what she had said, as well. She was NOT asking for forever, not at least in the sense of waiting. No…if anything, the temptation to kiss him again would wear her down! As if she was in any danger of not being worn down by him.

The thought suddenly brought an even brighter blush to her cheek. _Oh Lord…even when we're not in the same room, his methods of flirtation and seduction linger on!_

* * *

><p><em>Sorry for the lack of kiss! But don't worry, a kiss is in the cards *before* they attempt to run away ;o) Until then, I hope you enjoyed the sexual tension! <em>


	119. Sybil's Diary XXIX

_Despite the last update that took me forever to write, this one came fairly quickly (the diary/journal/letter entries always do it seems). Anyway, this is mainly reminding us what all is happening inside the house (episode 2x06 was fairly boring from a Sybil/Tom standpoint) but it is important to see how all these events, I think, affected the two of them, and their views on the house and the people around them, and perhaps how these events also shaped their individual lives, and their relationship as a couple. So anyway, this chapter examines the breaking news about the "possible resurrected cousin". Hope you enjoy and please continue to send feedback! THANKS!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Nineteen<strong>

October 12, 1918

I…I honestly don't know what to say…

…

…

I truly am speechless!

…

Major Gordon…Major _Patrick_ Gordon…could…could very well be…_Patrick Crawley?_

…

I don't what to think, really. I…I mean…it just seems too…too incredible to be true! After all these years—six years, to be exact! Patrick returns…?

…

If he is, Patrick, of course, which we don't know for certain, and I shouldn't jump to conclusions, but…I don't know. I honestly don't know what to make of it all.

After dinner, Papa asked us all to gather in the private section of the library, away from the officers convalescing, because he had some very important news to share. I had noticed throughout dinner how…distraught he looked. And it was a similar look to one I had seen Edith wear, although I don't know if I could call hers one of distraught but more of…anticipation, really. I should have known something was the matter when Papa insisted that he, Matthew, and Sir Richard join us immediately following dinner. I don't think I can recall a time when the men immediately joined the ladies after dinner! I think the person who seemed the most shocked was Granny; she quickly leapt to the conclusion that we were joining all those others in suffering from financial ruin.

…I…I can't deny there was a tiny part of me that wondered if…if it had something to do with Tom. That…that somehow they had found out about his proposal…and…and about everything I had told Mary all those months ago. But Mary didn't look guilty…if truth be told, she looked just as confused as the rest of us, and…and despite our most recent row, I don't think she would betray Tom and myself, I really don't believe she would.

Still…I did have that moment of panic, thinking this is how a fox must feel during the hunt, surrounded completely, with no way of escape. I can't begin to describe the relief I felt when I realized that wasn't why Papa was calling for this special meeting.

Yet I was not prepared for the reason. Indeed, I would never have guessed the reason for this meeting if I had been given a thousand lifetimes.

Can it be? Patrick…our cousin, Mary's first fiancée, and the original future heir to Downton…_is alive?_

…

…

This…news…was met _very_ differently by everyone gathered.

Papa didn't quite seem to know what to make of it all. He was trying to be the voice of reason, clearly, as well as the voice of doubt, but…he did look quite troubled, to say the least.

Granny was strangely silent on the whole matter. Cousin Isobel also attempted to offer reason, trying to present the fact that Patrick had drowned on the _Titanic_, that it had been recorded, and yet Edith did make a good point that his body was never, truly recovered…still, the likelihood that he could have survived that…

Sir Richard was quite clueless on the whole matter. He knew nothing of Patrick, nothing about his past or his connection to us. It was quickly explained to him by…by Matthew. Who looked so upset…but…but not quite for the reasons Mary thought he was.

Mary…

And Edith.

Yes, I think it's safe to say that both my sisters were the loudest and most opinionated of anyone in that room. And…as so often it seems, they were both polar opposites on the matter.

Edith…well, now it all makes sense. How she looked tonight at dinner, how attentive she had been during these past few weeks with Major Gordon present. I…I can't help but wonder, even though the details were never specified, how long she's known? I mean, how long has she been harboring this secret? She must have said something to Papa about it, at least I can detect that much. Papa did reveal that he spoke to Major Gordon and that the major gave him a letter, a letter he had had written for him prior to coming to Downton, detailing everything about him, more or less offering "proof", that he is who he says he is. This letter has already been sent to Papa's lawyers, which gives me the impression that Papa must have spoken to the man no later than yesterday…and judging from the way Papa had looked this evening, I can't imagine him harboring such news for more than day. But…I can't help but think Papa, and the rest of us really, would have remained in the dark…if it hadn't been for Edith.

Edith knew. Major Gordon must have approached her first. I…I mean, I had wondered why it seemed she had taken such an…interest in him. And it apparently hasn't gone unnoticed by others, why I still remember that day I overheard those two officers talking about her absence…and how she spends all her time with Major Gordon.

When did he tell her? Right away? No, no, even if Edith is better at keeping secrets than Papa, I can't see her keeping something like that to herself for that long a period of time. She would want to get the bottom of it straight away. Of course…it's obvious that she believes his story. I think what she wants more than anything is for Papa's lawyers to return the letter and proclaim that yes…this man truly is…our cousin, Patrick.

And why should that be so surprising? Meaning, Edith's desire for this to be true?

…She loves Patrick. She always loved Patrick. I remember going to her room every night for a fortnight to console her after we heard learned the news about the Titanic. I remember feeling so sorry for her, and I remember asking her what…what I had suspected all along, that…that she loved Patrick…and not in the way that I or Papa or Mama or…well, or even Mary, possibly, loved him.

Edith loved Patrick…the same way I love Tom.

…

…

Can I blame my sister for wanting to believe this man is Patrick Crawley? Her long lost love? Although, I don't remember Cousin Patrick ever really…showing a fancy for Edith. I mean, he was always good, that I do remember; polite and gentlemanly, never saying a cross word and sometimes even chastising Mary for causing mischief and saying something rude to her. But Patrick always seemed to understand his place; that he was going to be the next Earl of Grantham, and therefore Mary was going to be his future Countess. I…I don't think Patrick ever loved Mary, not the way that Tom…I believe (oh I dearly hope!) loves me…but…oh does it matter? I was barely fifteen the last time I saw him! And I was such a young child when he visited, far too young to go and play with both of my sisters and him. I don't think it's wrong for me say that Patrick and I weren't very close…I mean, I remember liking him, but…I know he never meant to me what he means to Edith. And while I was sad to hear of his death six years ago, I was sadder for Edith.

So naturally…Major Gordon mysteriously arrives, badly wounded, barely recognizable to his horrible burns, and…claims to be Patrick. And his bandages and wounds make it difficult to question whether or not he looks anything like Patrick, and his voice…well, he speaks with a Canadian accent now, but according to Edith, that's due to suffering from amnesia all these years, which apparently is the reason as to why he hasn't tried to come back…until now.

…

…

How…? How did he regain his memory? I…I don't recall either Papa or Edith revealing that much.

And, I know I said that Patrick and I weren't very close, yet…have I altered that much since the last saw one another? Yes, I was fifteen years old, but…have I changed that much, that he wouldn't recognize me? Although, I was in nurse's garb, and perhaps he would remember his little Cousin Sybil in a fine dress? But…other than his name, I…I don't remember ever thinking this man was a ringer for our deceased cousin.

I just can't help but find it odd, that after working with him for several days at the hospital, he never said anything to me, I don't even remember speaking to him a great deal. And even if he didn't recognize me, why didn't he say anything if one of the nurse's called me by my surname? Surely he would have heard that at some point, wouldn't he?

…

…

Mary's attitude is quite different to Edith's. Whereas Edith was quick to point to various reasons to prove that Major Gordon is indeed our cousin, Mary was quick to snap that it was impossible. And her anger was rising with every word.

Lord, I was sitting across the room from her, but I kept flinching every time she raised her voice. I honestly don't know if I was frozen cold by the harshness of her words…or scalded by the intense fire in her eyes and voice. Thank God for Mama; she was trying to keep Mary calm before a fight broke out between her and Edith.

I…I mean, I suppose I find myself agreeing more with Mary, simply that…that it does seem rather impossible that this could be _our_ Patrick. But really, what seemed to be upsetting Mary the most wasn't so much that this man, this stranger, was claiming to be Patrick, but what it would mean…to Matthew.

…

Poor Matthew. He looked so…devastated by this revelation, but also so…spiteful, I suppose. No doubt he was embarrassed to have to explain to Sir Richard what it would mean if Major Gordon turns out to indeed be our cousin Patrick, and how that means that he is no longer the future heir of Downton. But…but the thing that shook us all was Matthew's bitterness, which I can't fault him for. I know it's nothing Papa or Mary want to hear or be reminded of…but Matthew made a reference to how we were all "lucky" if it turned out that Patrick was indeed alive, because he can walk and…and have children, and…

He asked me to wheel him away in that moment, clearly far too angry and upset to continue sitting amongst us and having to think or talk about the issue further. I…I don't know how much longer they all stayed to argue the point—Mary looked ready to draw blood if Edith said another word about how they should all hope for the best, that it was our cousin miraculously returned; oh Edith—I love her and understand her elation at this possibility (and her frustration when the rest of us continue to doubt) but she really does need to learn to pick the moments to make her arguments.

Matthew didn't speak at all as I wheeled him back to his room. I thought about staying, perhaps sitting and talking with him, but he muttered his thanks and murmured that he was tired and that I should go back to the others…and even though I was tempted to argue with him and insist upon staying…I didn't. I saw the distant look in his eyes, and…I just felt my heart ache for him. Ache because…because he seemed so alone then. He's not, of course, he has all of us, but…I can't help but think that despite all the years he's been here and has gotten to know each and every one of us, there are moments when Matthew still feels like an outsider.

…

…

I didn't go back downstairs. I returned to my room, where I decided to stay for the rest of the night. I just...I honestly don't know what to make of all this. Mama did come and knock on my door, murmuring her concern that I didn't come back down, and I simply made excuses that I had a headache and wanted to lie down. She smiled and kissed my cheek before leaving me to write as I am now. I confess, I keep waiting for another knock, perhaps. For Papa or Mary…or Edith. I must admit, I'm especially surprised that Edith hasn't come to my door. I can't imagine Papa wanting to let her sit with Major Gordon any further after this evening. I can't imagine he'll let Major Gordon out of his sight until this is all settled. But really, what can lawyers accomplish with this? Even if they find a great deal of evidence to suggest he very well could be Patrick…there will always be a part of us who will wonder and doubt (and I think it's safe to say that Mary will never accept him). But…but by that same token, if we learn that there isn't enough evidence to support his claim, some of us…Edith, especially…will always wonder. Perhaps we didn't find the right amount of evidence? Or we didn't look in the right places? Or speak to the right people? Either way…there will always be seeds of doubt.

…

I wonder what Tom would make of all this? Would he choose a side? I confess, I kept thinking how…strange it would feel…knowing that Sir Richard would be a part of this family very soon, and therefore it made sense for him to present, but still…in some ways, it felt as if he were…"invading" on something very private, but how is his presence any different from Matthew's? And if…if he were still engaged to Lavinia…would she be there? I think she would be, yes, and I will admit, I wouldn't be as…"put off", I suppose, by her presence.

Oh honestly, I don't know why I continue to carry on? It's not like I'll be here for much longer!

…

…

…

Still…it was…it was nice, I must admit, despite the subject matter, to be a part of that conversation, to be amongst my family and…and learn this strange and possibly life-changing news. I'm so used to being the last to learn anything, that…that it's strange to be included amongst the rest for once!

…

I am going to miss them, I cannot deny it…

…

I just wish…

…

…

I just wish…that if…if Sir Richard can be welcomed and accepted by my family, and I know that Papa has his misgivings, he tries to hide them, but I can tell—but if Sir Richard can be accepted, why can't…why can't Tom? Is he really so different? Doesn't it matter more that he makes me happy, than the fact that he comes from a working class background?

…

Oh Tom…it's only been two days since I came to you in the garage and asked for you to wait. Only two days, and yet…it feels like two years. And I know that's rich, coming from me, the one who has forced him to wait and is asking him to wait a little longer, but…

…

…

I miss him. And even though he's only a few yards away in his cottage, it feels like the Irish Sea is separating us. But very soon, that will be true, only in a slightly different manner. Soon, the Irish Sea will separate me from everything _here_—from everyone that I love, and from all the drama that seems to constantly take place.

…

I may not miss the drama…but I will miss the players.


	120. A Very Revealing Letter

_One year ago on this day (Jan. 16) I started posting a "little" story called Love's Journey, which was meant to be a "simple" retelling of Tom and Sybil's romance...that somehow grew to be over 100 chapters long and became a great deal more complex than I ever imagined. But I have had the best time writing this fic, and I find it funny that today, on the 1 Year Anniversary of this story being posted, this chapter is letter from Tom to his mother...just as the first chapter to Love's Journey was. Things are certainly moving more and more to that moment of being completely "full circle". _

_Anyway, THANK YOU for reading my story, whether you began reading it on January 16, 2012, or whether you discovered it much later, but either way, THANK YOU for your support, encouragement, reviews, follows, and of course, your readership. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Twenty<strong>

Dear Mother,

It's over…

I…I can't believe it…after so many years…after five long, bloody years…it's finally happened…

The War is over.

…

…

Forgive me, for…well, for the pauses in this letter, I just…I'm overwhelmed. Overjoyed, absolutely! But…I can't help but wonder if I'm dreaming? Will I wake up any second to discover that the news his Lordship gave us tonight while having our supper was just wishful thinking? Or what if…what if we only think it's over, but it really isn't? I mean, I know I've been reading and hearing stories for so many months that the Allies are gaining power, the Allies are gaining control, the Allies are turning the tide, that any second, the War will be over and the Allies will be victors! I've heard so many people, from the officers residing here while Downton remains a convalescent home, to the other members on staff, to people in the village—everyone keeps saying that the War is coming to an end, but is it really? Because they've said that for the past few years and still, it continued to rage. So you can perhaps understand my…doubts.

…But God, I want it to be true. I want the 11th of November to be here tomorrow, for the bloody ceasefire to be officially declared. I have to agree with Mrs. Patmore, the cook here, who asked why it couldn't be declared now? No doubt some bureaucratic reason behind it: 11 in the morning on the 11th day of the 11th month…

I was in the Servant's Hall when I learned the news. We were having dinner and I was the midst of discussing my views for what would happen to Germany when the War was over. It's strange how during that moment, during that conversation, we learned what had happened. Mr. Carson, the butler, thinks that some sort of regency will be established after the Keiser and possibly the crown prince are overthrown. His exact words were "monarchy is the lifeblood of Europe"; Mr. Carson as I know I've told you before, is a good man and I respect him very much, but he is "old fashioned", and I wasn't too surprised that he "scoffed", so to speak, at my words about Germany becoming a republic, after the War.

Are you surprised? You know me, mother, and my "political ramblings" as I know you sometimes refer them. But don't worry, I don't believe I insulted Mr. Carson or anyone else; I haven't gotten myself into trouble, even if I, and President Wilson for that matter, disagree with his idea that some sort of regent should be put up to lord over the land. Ask any good Irish Republican and he'll tell you that the whole notion of monarchs and emperors is old fashioned and out of touch with the modern world we live in now. But you'll be happy to know that I keep my "socialist thoughts" to myself anymore, at least with my fellow staff. Besides, if they don't know how I think and feel about such matters, then all I can say is, "have you been living under a rock all these years since I've been here?"

But yes, that was when his Lordship entered the Servant's Hall and gave us the news. We were all surprised, to say the least. I think there was a healthy mixture of joy and jubilation along with doubt and concern. Yes, I clapped my hands and smiled and lifted my glass in cheers with my friends and fellow staff, but…I still can't help but wonder…is this true? Did this really happen?

…

…

What was the reaction there? How has this news affected Dublin? The nation, really? Has it had any impact on the cause? I know, I know, the best way to get those answers is to come and see it myself—don't deny it, mam, I know you were thinking it.

…

…And…and the truth is…I…I may be there much sooner than you think.

…

No, you didn't misread that. I…I am thinking of coming back, and it being soon. How soon, I'm not sure, I will write to you again to confirm when exactly, but…yes. As hard as that may be to believe, yes, I…I am planning on leaving Downton and returning to Ireland. The time…I feel that the time has come…or will be coming, soon. Like I said, I can't give you any more detail than that, just…be patient. It shouldn't be too long, perhaps a few more weeks? I would love to be back home by Christmas, but I don't want to get your hopes up, in fact PLEASE do not share a word of this with anyone else! I just don't want to dash any hopes or expectations, just…trust me, mam, when I say that it will be soon.

…

…

Perhaps you're wondering "why now?" Why now, after…after years of excuses for staying? Well…the girls are doing well in school from what you tell me, and things have gotten better for Frank as well; he seems to have cleaned up his act and has left behind those hooligan friends of his, and I'm glad he's taking his new job seriously…so…so yes, things do seem to be going well, so…so maybe it is time for me to come home? Come back and find work in Ireland, most likely in Dublin, but…yes, I do feel that…that the time has come.

…

…

Mother…

…

Mam, I…

…

…

What if…what if I didn't come back alone?

…

What if I told you that I've met someone? A girl, yes, because I know that's what you're thinking. What if I told you that…that I've met the woman I want to marry, and that I'm hoping for the both of us to get married, soon, perhaps in Ireland, or…or perhaps here, I don't know, we haven't worked any details out, I just…

…

There, I've said it. I'm in love. I…I've been in love with this extraordinary woman for…for quite some time. You'd love her, mam; I think all of you would. She's witty, she's intelligent, she's kind, she's brave, she's…God, she's beautiful, and…and she makes my heart soar like…I mean, every time I see her, I breathing quickens, my heart races, the blood in my veins begins to pound and…I'm utterly lost. But I can't stop smiling. I can't stop grinning like some idiot because…because she fills me with such…happiness. She makes me want to be a better man, mother. She makes me want to be the best I can be, and…and she believes in me. She believes I can do anything I set my mind and heart to, that I'm more than just my position, and…yes, she's English, but she respects my feelings for an independent Ireland, and she supports them too! She's quite political herself, actually, in fact…I would say that's how we first began to fall in love. She's very passionate about women getting the vote, and was very open to learning more about socialism, and…well, it just went from there.

BUT I HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING TO DISHONOR HER OR HER GOOD NAME OR EVEN MY OWN! I…forgive me, I…I know you don't think ill of me, mam, or make such assumptions, but…just know that you did raise your son to treat a woman with respect.

…

…

God…perhaps this is an even bigger revelation than the war ending…?

I'm sorry for keeping you in the dark for so long, mother, I just…I didn't know when the right time would come to tell you, and I wanted things to be…to be as perfect as they could be, but I know, I know, nothing is ever perfect, at least not completely, but…after hearing such news this evening, about peace and hope for a more peaceful future and world, I just…I knew that the time was right.

So here I am. Writing to you and telling you that not only do I believe I will be coming back, very soon, but…but that you will also be gaining a daughter-in-law shortly.

…So? Are you angry? Are you upset? I don't suppose I can blame you for wanting to take a mallet to my head.

But I am happy, mam, please know that. She makes me so happy. I love her so much, and…and I know that all of you will love her too. And she will love all of you as well, she has such a heart, mam, she's a nurse, actually! A wonderful, hardworking and compassionate nurse, and…oh God, mam, please…just…write to me soon, please, I wish I could see you, I wish I could see your face right now and know what you're thinking. And…and hopefully, very soon, I will. I just hope you'll welcome us both with open arms.

But…please, and I know, I know, I have no right to ask you to keep such secrets, but…please, just for a few more weeks, at least until you receive my next letter, please, do not say anything to Frank or the girls or anyone. Not until everything is settled here, please. I'm sorry to ask you to do that, but…thank you, mam. For everything, thank you.

…

…

Well, the only way I'll know what you think is if I send this. So I will end my letter here, and…hope and pray that you'll still speak to me! But in all seriousness…I do look forward to your response, and will be waiting for it impatiently, I must add.

Thank you, mam—again, for everything. All of my love to everyone there. I miss you…but I will be with you again very, very soon. God bless,

—Tom

* * *

><p><em>Anyone notice one ittsy-bitsy detail he failed to mention? ;o)<em>


	121. Sybil's Diary XXX

_Just a quick rant; episode 2x06 is a difficult one to write about simply because the timeline is all screwy and there's so little Sybil/Branson moments to write about! Grrr! Very frustrating, at least for me. BUT I am excited about some chapters that will follow this one, and this chapter will begin a slight focus-shift to Edith, who I have BIG PLANS FOR later in the story, and her relationship with Tom and Sybil, but that will all begin to take center stage with this chapter, and the two that follow it. So if you're also an Edith fan, hope you like what you see with that too! Anyway, thank you always for reading and reviewing!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Twenty-One<strong>

November 2, 1918

What a night.

Oh Lord, more than that; what a last few days!

I know I haven't written anything since…well, since Papa's announcement about the War.

I'm still shocked beyond all words about that, too! So many different thoughts have been running through my mind—relief and joy that it's finally over, worry and doubt that something horrible may still happen, anxiety and impatience for the 11th of November, and…an odd mixture of wonder and worry about…about what will happen next.

…For Tom and myself.

…

…

I did ask him to wait until the War was over. And…well, for all intents and purposes, it is indeed, over. Of course, I know it would be foolish to assume that means my work here is close to being over. There are still so many men both at the hospital and at the house that will need help for quite some time. We may have patients all the way up till Christmas at this rate! But…I did promise him…and myself…that when the War was over…that was would be when I would give finally give him my answer.

…

And I confess…I'm rather terrified! But only because…because it's venturing forth into an unknown world and starting a new life, one very, very different from the one I know, and living in a place where I'll be the stranger, the foreigner, the—

…

…

But I won't be alone. I need to keep reminding myself this whenever my fear, doubt, and anxiety tries to take hold. I won't be alone in facing all these things…

Tom will be with me.

…

…

…

I do feel a little better now. But I know I would feel even better if I could just have a moment alone with him again.

We haven't had a chance really to be alone, not since…Lord, I still blush at the memory…not since that time I went to go and see him in the garage and ask if he would wait. Papa has been traveling back and forth to York and Manchester so many times, and my schedule at both the hospital and here at the house has been so demanding—not to mention all this business that is happening now with Major Gordon—Tom and I have simply been unable to pass a word beyond the simple "good day". And while I would dearly love to send him a letter, some little note to tell him that I'm happy the War is over, just…something, with the hope that he will write to me…I…I honestly don't know how to get such a simple note to him without causing suspicion. Oh I miss Gwen for so many reasons, but I confess _this_ is one of them.

So Tom and I are cursed right now in this strange period of limbo, where neither of us have had much if any opportunity to sit and communicate because, basically, our jobs have become so demanding that they have managed to keep us apart. And…I can only pray that when we do go to Ireland, while I am aware that life will be different for the both of us, I do pray that it will not be like this all the time. I don't think I could bear it!

…

We're not the only two lingering in limbo. As I mentioned, the business with Major Gordon continues to confuse us all. Weeks ago, when Papa learned the news and alerted us all about Major Gordon's claims to be Cousin Patrick, Papa told us all to keep the news to ourselves, that he would send inquiries to his lawyers and let them investigate the matter further. Edith, who clearly wants to believe that it is possible, that Major Gordon truly is Patrick, was supposed to keep her distance from him while the investigation was taking place—but…I suppose there's a little my "rebellious attitude" in my sister, because she has not kept her distance, if anything, she spends more time with Major Gordon, when she's convinced Mama and Papa are not about. I would be a hypocrite if I told her to stop; after all, according to Society, I shouldn't be spending so much time with Tom…let alone contemplating running away with him.

And…and I have been conflicted about the whole thing, too. Meaning, that…a part of me wants it to be true, that he truly is Patrick, at least for Edith's sake, because she did love Patrick very much and judging from the way she clings to Major Gordon's side whenever she gets the chance, she still loves him, perhaps more now than ever before!

But…but Matthew…

Matthew says he's broken. And it saddens me so that he believes because he cannot walk or…or have children, this means his life no longer has purpose. An easy thing for someone like myself who can walk perfectly well, and…and who may very well one day have children…to say, but…Matthew will make a wonderful Earl of Grantham, I know he will! Papa is a great man too, Tom certainly thinks so, after all, he's always gone on about how he respects Papa and thinks him decent and a good employer, and yet…I know that Matthew will bring great ideas—modern ideas!—to Downton, and help it grow and prosper even more! And…and I don't believe that a person can be measured as a success or a failure based purely on the use of one's limbs or whether or not they can have children. So that being said, while I know Matthew is upset, I don't want him to lose his place as the future heir.

So yes, I am rather conflicted about the entire matter. But no one has asked for my opinion and quite frankly, I haven't volunteered it to anyone, nor do I think I will. However, I find myself even more conflicted about Major Gordon and his relationship with my sister after the incident I witnessed but a few days ago.

It was around luncheon; I was in the hall, pouring water for the officers, when I noticed out of the corner of my eye Edith sitting with Major Gordon, the two of them talking in hushed voices, or at least they began as hushed voices. However, his voice began to rise. I couldn't make out all of their conversation other than a few words here and there about "lawyers" and "doubt" and "disbelief"—but I could tell that he was getting more and more agitated. And then suddenly, he pushed the edge of the table where they were both sitting, nearly sending it toppling over, causing the silverware to fly about, before shouting loudly in anger, _"I'm a stranger to them now!"_

I can only imagine to whom he was referring.

I tried not to stare…and…and not to look too judgmental, for Edith's sake. But I can't deny, the reaction not only startled me, but it frightened me a little, and once again, for Edith's sake. I know what it's like to lash out in anger, to let our anger get the better of us; Lord knows I've done it plenty of times myself, as has Tom…but…I know Edith is strong, but…but I fear for her heart. I remember how frail and broken she was after we learned about Patrick's death, and I would hate it if she goes through something like that again! And…and…and I swear, if that does happen, Tom may have to hold me back to keep me from taking the keys out of his hand and trying to run over Major Gordon myself!

…

…

We gathered again just the other day; Papa now had some news from London about the investigation regarding Major Gordon.

God, it…it was not pleasant. Even worse than last time. While Mary and Edith didn't raise their voices or lose their patience with each other the way they had done then, the tension was thicker than ever before. Papa would say one thing and Edith would quickly jump on the point, and say "there!" as if that were proof enough—and Mary would roll her eyes, and then jump on a different point that Papa would give to counter the first. And this continued going on and on for several long, and rather excruciating minutes.

It was like a horrible, emotional tennis match, where really, there were no victors, just…anger and broken hearts.

One bit of information that Papa mentioned that caught my ear was about a man named "Peter Gordon". Apparently this man worked beside Patrick at the Foreign Office, and emigrated to Canada in 1913. Granny was quick to point out that after his injury, this Peter Gordon (assuming that he is Major Gordon) found a "silver lining" in impersonating Patrick; and Mary was quick to agree that all he needed was a story about some "unknown survivor" on the Titanic to help his tale sound plausible. Naturally, Edith argued against this, saying that the story Major Gordon has told her bears out to the one about the Titanic which the lawyers have found…and…and I had to agree with her, it did.

Poor Matthew. While all this was going on, I noticed how Isobel kept glancing at him, to see how he was taking the news. Unlike before, he remained silent the entire time, but he did look…troubled.

Mama asked for Papa's opinion on the matter, which I myself was eager to hear. And he honestly answered…that he's not sure.

…

Rather like myself, to be honest. Rather like my emotions on the matter, too. I'm not sure if I want Major Gordon to be Patrick or not. I'm not sure if I want any of this to be true or not. The only thing I am sure about…is the Irishman who resides in the chauffeur's cottage just next to the garage, but who feels like he's already far across the Irish Sea from me…

…

…

The meeting ended shortly after that. Papa told us that Mr. Murray will continue his investigation and that we should all keep what we know to ourselves, and then he turned to Edith and reminded her to be "polite" to Major Gordon, but nothing more.

Oh Edith; to see her…to see how torn she looked. I know I have been so focused for so long on Mary and Matthew and the struggles they have endured, but…but Edith…I…I can't imagine what this must feel like. To want to believe that the man you loved—love still…is possibly alive.

If…if something had happened to Tom…and then suddenly…some man, horrible scarred, showed up after years of being away and presumed…presumed…presumed dead…would I…would I be able to…?

…

No, no, I can't even bear to think it, let alone write it down on paper. It's too horrible.

…

…

Oh God, how I…how I wish I could see him. How I wish I could throw myself into his arms like before, and just…lose myself in his embrace.

…How I wish, despite my worries and anxieties and sadness over leaving my family…how I wish we could be together in Dublin now. And there would be nothing preventing us from being together like we were that day in the garage…or that night in his cottage…

…

…

Soon. That's what I keep telling myself; soon.

…

As I began this entry, tonight seemed to be the straw that broke the camel's back, in the list of incredible things that are taking place around here. Sir Richard was apparently going to join us for dinner this evening, but according to Mary, he would have started late in leaving London, and would most likely not arrive until after we had finished, and so it seemed she was right—until just before we rose to leave, he practically floated through the door…with Lavinia.

…

LAVINIA!

I…I honestly don't know what to think! I'm even more dumbfounded and confused by THIS turn of events! I mean, if I was conflicted before about whether or not wanting Major Gordon to be or not to be Cousin Patrick, I'm even more conflicted about whether or not I want Matthew and Lavinia to reconcile their differences, because I actually DO like Lavinia! And yet…and yet there's a part of me—oh God, there's always been a part of me—that hopes and prays he and Mary will…

…

No, no, I need to stop. I need to stop investing so much…so much thought into the love lives of my sisters. Because I doubt they invest any in my own—well, Edith's excuse is that she doesn't know anything about it, but Mary…well, she has made it quite plain as to her thoughts on the matter and my possible choice of husband (possible in her mind's eye).

…

However, it is curious, how…how Sir Richard had apparently brought Lavinia here and…and I also did notice that it was hinted that Mama had something to do with it. That Lavinia had apparently been invited at Mama's request? I…I mean, that's very nice of her, but…since when did Mama show any interest in having Lavinia here? And it did seem that she and Sir Richard were…well, "conspirators" together, on this whole arrangement.

Mama asked for Lavinia to take Matthew into the small library. Despite my disgust for gossip, I was eager to learn what was being said, and made up some excuse for Edith and I to enter the library after a few minutes had passed. She and I had just entered and were quietly talking about driving of all things, when Lavinia offered to wheel Matthew back to his room.

He didn't look…angry…but he didn't look…comfortable, either. Perhaps he's feeling just as confused as I am about the entire matter? Mary and Sir Richard entered shortly after they had gone; he was smiling and offered polite conversation, but I could tell Mary was…unsettled. No doubt because of Lavinia's return. It was tempting to ask her opinion, but I couldn't very well do that with Sir Richard standing there, and…besides, as I said, I need to stop trying to…interfere, I suppose, in hers or Edith's love lives.

...

…Basically I need to steel myself and harden my heart to all of my family. Because…because perhaps by doing so, that will make the pain a little less worse and a little easier to bear, when they turn their backs and shun me for the rest of my life for daring to follow my heart.


	122. Everything Will Be Fine

_As I mentioned in my previous chapter, the next few chapters are going to be a little "Edith-centric", partially because of the events happening in 2x06, but also partially because Edith will end up playing a rather big role for Sybil and Tom down the road, so this will begin to pave that way. Anyway, the scene that we saw on the show, where Sybil gives Edith Major Gordon's letter, and attempts to comfort her after he leaves, made me wonder if Sybil knew more. I did notice how sad she looked for Edith, and how reluctant she seemed to tell her this sad news, and I had a feeling that Sybil knew, directly, about Major Gordon's leaving, so here is my take on that._

_Once again, thank you SO MUCH for the encouragement and support; your comments and reviews mean so much, and I'm so glad that even a year and now 120 chapters later, you're still enjoying this retelling of Tom and Sybil's romance. So thank you, thank you, once again, THANK YOU!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Twenty-Two<strong>

Her shift started early that day. Thankfully, however, it was at the house, so she didn't have to wake up too early to prepare for it. Which was also just as well, as she was having a great deal of difficulty in sleeping as of late. Her anxiety over what was to happen now that the War was over was growing with each passing second it seemed. And it didn't help that she barely saw Tom, not when both her schedule and his driving her father nearly all across Yorkshire conflicted against each other. So for the past few days and nights, she was trying to figure out some way of getting a letter to him. Nothing long, just…something that told him she missed him…and to ask him to wait just a little longer, at least until her work for the hospital and the convalescent home was finished. She believed he already knew this, but still, he had been waiting for so long and even though he had told her, with his own lips, that he would "wait forever", she despised herself for keeping him waiting another second of another day.

_I'm determined. I am going to leave with him. We are going to be married, I love him, I've loved him for so long, and it's time. It's time to go forward, for the both of us…_

But despite her newfound determination, she still couldn't stop herself from worrying and wondering about what would happen when the two of them left. She had heard so many horrible stories about girls who had "run away with stable boys or footmen"; stories that were told as cautionary tales to all young ladies everywhere, that no matter how handsome or charming a servant appeared to be, or how exciting it seemed to be a part of a "star-crossed romance", if you did so, not only would you ruin your reputation and forever be "doomed" to outskirts of Society and live the rest of your days as a spinster…but that you would also bring such shame to your family, that they would have nothing to do with you, ever again. It would be as if you were dead.

…And that was the part that frightened her the most. That more or less, her family would think of her as dead or worse…as if she never existed in the first place.

_Why is it that men can get away with such things? Why is it deemed "acceptable", or at the very least, "forgivable", if a man chooses to take a woman "below him" as his wife?_ Lord, how many times had she read passages from Pride and Prejudice or Jane Eyre? Passages where women who were deemed "ill suited" for the hero because of their somewhat "common" upbringing, but found perfect happiness because the hero loved them and saw them as equals even if Society didn't. Would anyone dare say that Mr. Darcy was deemed "unworthy" of existence, because he married a woman judged by his snobbish aunt to be his inferior? Certainly not. Yet ANOTHER double-standard. _A rich, aristocratic man who marries a servant is Prince Charming, and she his Cinderella. But a rich, aristocratic woman who marries a servant…well, she's a "fallen woman" beyond redemption, apparently! And he clearly is guilty of "seducing her", whereas it's far more likely for a wealthy lord to seduce a housemaid!_

Sybil had to close her eyes and count to ten (several times) to get herself to calm down. This was why her letter had not yet been finished. Every time she sat down to write it, she felt her anger growing at the thought of the injustice that both she and Tom would soon be facing for wanting to be true to themselves and their hearts and do something good and right and pure.

That, and the fact that once she had finished writing it, how exactly she would get it to him? She couldn't very well sneak it over to his cottage, not without worry of being detected. And she couldn't just leave it in the garage for fear that Pratt would come across it, as he was spending a great deal more time at Downton right now, while Tom was busy driving her father all across Yorkshire. And while she adored Anna, she knew that her relationship with her was nothing like it was with Gwen. Besides, Anna was very close to Mary, and the last thing Sybil needed was for Anna to say something to her sister.

She rolled out of bed just half an hour before her shift was to start. She groaned and blinked and rubbed her eyes, which were no doubt somewhat bloodshot for the long hours she kept the night before. She glanced across her room to her table, where the unfinished letter lay, taunting her. She grabbed the offensive piece of paper and stuffed it into the drawer, locking it before anyone came into the room to see it. Hopefully Daisy hadn't lingered to read it when she had come in to light the fire that morning.

She splashed some cold water onto her face, combed her hair and pulled it back into a simple bun with a few pins, before wrapping her headscarf around it, then quickly put on her uniform and did up her boots, before leaving her room and heading directly downstairs to help with serving breakfast to all of the officers gathered in the hall.

It was unlikely that any other members of her family would be up and about. Still, she was prepared to enter the hall and see if Edith were sitting there, waiting for Major Gordon to join her at their own "private table", or so it seemed, since they were the only two who sat there at practically every meal (when Edith could get away with it). Yet this morning, Edith was not there…but she frowned as she realized…neither was Major Gordon.

_Probably not about yet,_ she thought to herself, and without another thought on the matter, went about her duties of taking trays of hot food the officers who were unable to fetch their own breakfast due to injuries.

"Nurse Crawley?"

Sybil lifted her head at head nurse's call. "Yes?"

"We need more hot water for tea; please go and fetch some more from the kitchens."

The nurses and hospital staff tried their best not to give any more work to the servants, so Sybil simply nodded her head, and turned in the direction to the servant's staircase, where she could disappear and hurry back with a fresh kettle…when something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye.

Her brow furrowed…as she took in the sight of a hunched figure, stuffing items into a bag. A duffle bag…like the sort many of the soldiers carried. The man seemed…desperate. As if he was in a bit of a hurry. And every so often she noticed he would pause and lift his head, just slightly, as if looking to see if anyone was nearby.

_ Major Gordon. _

He had his back to her, but she recognized the bandages that covered the majority of the back of his head. Her mouth fell open and her eyes widened slightly as she watched him go about the task of filling his duffle bag, as if…as if he were going somewhere…

_Oh no…_

She would deal with Nurse Daniels later. Sybil abandoned her task and quickly went over to where Major Gordon was, who didn't notice her until she was right next to him and her boot touched his duffle bag. He gasped and lifted his head, his eyes wide as he stared at her through his bandages.

"Oh! I…" he paused, unsure exactly what to say or do it seemed. He simply stared up at her with an open mouth and a distracted gaze, glancing every which way out of the corners of his eyes to see if anyone else was about or had noticed what he was doing.

Sybil's frown of confusion only began to darken as she gazed at the duffle bag at his feet. She was going to question him on what he was doing, but it was rather obvious. _He's leaving; he's packing his things and preparing to escape before anyone truly notices; in some ways it's amazing he didn't do it in the middle of the night!_ Although people would have noticed then, and he wouldn't have managed to get very far. No…there was no need to ask Major Gordon any of these questions…nor was there any need to ask him why. It was quite obvious now…and despite all the times she had told herself not to care, not to become "emotionally invested" in the love lives of her sisters…she couldn't help but feel heartbroken for Edith. _Poor Edith…_

She wanted to shake him. She wanted to grab him by his shoulders and shake him, hard. She wanted to demand why he had done it? Why he had come there in the first place, why he had tried to manipulate a grieving woman, a grieving family—why he tried to give any of them hope!

No…shaking him was too good. She wanted to smack him, punch him even! Yes…she wanted to hurt him for the pain his leaving was going to cause—for the pain his presence had sprouted in the first place, just by being there and just by telling everyone who he was.

…But she didn't.

By some miracle…she didn't raise a hand…nor her voice to him. Because really, what good would it do? What purpose would it serve? It might make her feel better, but that wouldn't help Edith or the broken heart she would be nursing for who knows how long after this. Nor would any answer to any question she asked satisfy her, either.

The best thing for all of them…was to step aside, and allow him to flee. She only prayed that with time, Edith would understand, as well as mend from this ordeal.

"Where will you go?" she whispered, the only question that her mind could contemplate speaking at the moment.

He didn't look at her. He kept his eyes downcast and added a few remaining items to his bag. _Strange_, she thought. _All this time he was here; all this time he was going to Edith and claiming to be our cousin…and yet not once, did he ever call me by my name. Not once did he attempt to reach out and make any sort of connection with me. Did he ever really know who I was?_ No…because it was obvious now.

"Will you be returning to Canada?" she asked, forcing the words past the lump in her throat and folding her arms across her chest, waiting for his answer.

He didn't answer her question. Instead, he slowly began to rise to his feet, clutching the duffle bag to his body, as if his very life depended on it.

Sybil took a step back…partially to give him room to leave…and partially because she didn't trust herself with not lashing out at him. He wasn't going to give her an answer, she realized; to do so would be damning. Besides, how could her father's lawyers find him, if he left no word of his whereabouts?

He did surprise her, however, by holding his hand out…and she looked down to see an envelope pressed between his fingers with a simple word, scribbled across the top: _Edith._

"Will you please see that this gets to her?"

Sybil lifted her eyes from the envelope to Major Gordon's bandaged face, but he continued to advert his eyes_. I shouldn't_, she thought. _I should rip it up and tell Edith she's better off without him. Or better yet, I should somehow force him to stay, force him to deliver his own message, to confront her and tell her that it was all a lie! _

…But she didn't do any of those things. Perhaps…perhaps it was because she remembered a time when she sent secret messages to the man she loved? And remembering how dear it was to receive those letters?

Yet this letter would be nothing like the ones exchanged between Tom and herself. And she doubted very much that Edith would find it dear. Yet she took it…hoping, perhaps that it would provide her sister with some sort of closure; a last and final goodbye, to their dear cousin.

"Thank you…Nurse Crawley," Major Gordon whispered, as Sybil placed the envelope in her apron's pocket. He still refused to meet her eyes, but he gave a small nod of his head…and then quickly turned to the corridor…and proceeded to walk down it…past the hall…and out of the house, no doubt leaving Downton Abbey forever.

The letter felt like a massive weight, and Sybil couldn't deny the temptation to open it and see what it was he had written. Was it a confession? An admittance that he had been lying the entire time? That everything her father had told them the other day was in fact, true? Or was it perhaps an apology? Telling Edith he was sorry to have misled her for as long as long as he did? An explanation to why he had done what he did?

It was so tempting, both to read the letter herself, as well as not give it to her sister at all.

But she knew she couldn't do that. She would not stoop so low to play the part of the hypocrite now.

Sybil sighed and went down to fetch the fresh kettle which Nurse Daniels had requested her to fetch in the first place. She went about her duties in the hall, serving the men their tea while they had their breakfast, before returning to the make-shift dormitory where she had last seen Major Gordon (and where she had caught him in the midst of his escape) and began to remove the sheets for his bed.

Which was the precise time her sister entered the room.

_Oh Lord,_ Sybil inwardly groaned. There was only one outcome this conversation would have…

"What's happened to Major Gordon?" Edith asked. Naturally her sister knew this was his bed; and naturally her sister knew something was amiss, having found her stripping his sheets.

Sybil closed her eyes and took a deep breath, summoning both her patience and strength for what she would have to tell Edith.

"He's gone," she simply murmured, her eyes still focused on the sheets before her.

There was a hesitant pause, and even though she was being like Major Gordon, and avoiding her sister's gaze, she could feel the tension…as well as the horrible anxiety that this reality now brought to Edith's beliefs.

"But…he can't have," Edith protested, although her voice, while sounding indignant for having learned this truth, was by no means loud or accusing. Still, it broke Sybil's heart, just as she knew it would. She sighed and lifted her eyes then to her sister's. Edith was looking at her, as if waiting for some explanation, but Sybil knew that the explanation she wanted was to be told it wasn't true. Finally, Edith asked, "When?"

Sybil understood that question. It was the sort a person would ask when they had no idea on what else to say. "After breakfast," she murmured, stopping her work to hold her sister's gaze as she continued to speak. Even though Edith hadn't said the words, Sybil could see the protests, as well as the heart wrenching demands in the dark depths of her sister's eyes.

"We couldn't very well stop him," she continued, knowing that was one of Edith's unspoken "demands" as to why he was no longer there. "The War's over," Sybil whispered, as if that explained everything. No, no, it didn't explain a thing. All it simply did was provide a soldier an excuse for leaving, even if it was before his official discharge. It didn't explain why a man, claiming to be the long lost cousin, suddenly chose to leave after trying so desperately to convince all of them of his identity.

…After he had clearly convinced one person to believe him; the person who wanted to believe him more than anyone.

_I should have punched him when I had the chance_, she found herself thinking, biting back the bitter words that were filling her head, as well as her throat. Instead, she reached into her apron pocket and pulled out the envelope he had given her just before leaving. "He left this for you," she simply explained, handing the letter to her sister.

Edith looked surprised, but wasted no time in snatching the envelope out of Sybil's hands, nor in opening it right there in front of her. _I shouldn't look, _Sybil found herself repeating over and over_. It's a private matter—clearly, one meant for Edith and Edith alone. I shouldn't ask, I shouldn't do anything, I should just let things be as they are. After all, what's done is done, and both Mary and Edith have their own lives to live. Soon I'll be pushed away and shunned, so I shouldn't both investing my emotions any further, I should just—_

"What does it say?"

_So much for that plan._ Edith was trembling. And it was clear her legs were wobbling slightly, for she quickly took a seat on the bed, as if trying to catch her breath before doing anything else.

_Oh no…_

A million different messages flashed before Sybil's eyes, and she really was wishing she had torn the envelope open to read whatever his offending, painful words had been written in order to spare her sister, or better yet, simply tear the letter to pieces as she first considered doing when he had handed it to her.

But Edith somehow managed to make herself to read the letter out loud, despite how shaky and overwrought with emotion her voice sounded. "'It was too difficult; I'm sorry.'", Edith read, before concluding, "P. Gordon."

That was it?

Sybil frowned at this, and wondered if her sister was simply summing the letter up for her sake. But as she sat on the opposite end of the bed, and leaned over Edith's shoulder slightly, she could see the two simple and bitterly sad lines which her sister had just read.

_Clever_, she found herself thinking. He neither confirmed, nor denied, who he really was.

She knew she should be careful in asking this next question, and she even wondered if she should simply keep her mouth shut, altogether. But her curiosity got the better of her, and in truth, she wanted to know what her sister was thinking now about the entire matter, and this may be the best way to broach that subject. "P for Patrick?" she began, before softly asking, "or P for Peter?"

Edith, who was still gazing down at the simple letter in her trembling fingers suddenly snapped her head up. And even though she didn't turn to look at her, she didn't need to. Sybil felt the chill in her sister's voice, and knew she couldn't blame her for feeling upset and angry, and also knew it wasn't so surprising that her sister would want to blame her for daring to ask such a thing. "I know what you think, but I don't accept it," Edith declared, her voice filled with both sorrow as well as loyal determination. "We drove him away. His own family drove our cousin away!"

It truly did break her heart to hear Edith speak so. No matter what she, herself, thought of Major Gordon—whether or not she doubted his story, whether or not she was suspicious of the information that had been presented, whether or not she wondered why during all this time, he never once approached her as "Cousin Sybil!" but always as (if he approached her at all) "Nurse Crawley"—it didn't matter in Edith's eyes.

Which was what she tried to tell her sister; the closest thing to a message of consolation she could offer. "But _you_ believed in him, whoever he was," she whispered, reaching across the bed on which they were both sitting, and trying tenderly to take her sister's hand in hers. "And that's worth something."

She meant that. Despite her own feelings in regards to Major Gordon, she honestly, truly meant that.

Perhaps she shouldn't be so harsh on him; perhaps…like her sister, he too was lonely, and…just desperately wanted to be embraced and loved?

Edith didn't say anything further. Rather, she gave a little shake of her head, before quickly rising from the bed, still clutching the letter in her shaking hand, and without even looking back at her, marched out of the room with a determined force in her step.

_Damn it_, Sybil thought as she watched Edith go. A part of her wanted to chase after her sister, wanted to take Edith in her arms and hug her tightly and tell her that her happy ending, the great romance she had always longed for ever since she was little girl, would happen…and with a man far worthier than Major P. Gordon.

But Edith needed some time to herself now, and despite the urge to chase after her, Sybil knew that. If the situation were reversed, she would want the same as well.

This is going to be much harder than she had thought—this…"trying not to care", because she would soon be separated from them all and they would want to have very little—if anything, to do with her.

In fact, she was having serious doubts that she could do it, that she could keep herself from caring about her family, no matter what they did or how they reacted. She didn't always like her family or the positions they took on certain matters. She didn't always agree with them, in fact she quite often disagreed with them on a great many matters.

…But that didn't mean she didn't love them. And that didn't mean she wouldn't miss them when she left.

_But you can't have both_, she told herself. _As painful as it is to consider, you know, deep down, that Mary's right. To wish, to want, to believe that they will ever accept your choice, that they will ever see Tom as anything more than his position…is a fairy story_.

It hurt, very much, to have to make this decision. But she was determined to stand by it. After all, she had spent over twenty years of her life as a Crawley of Downton Abbey; it was time to stretch her wings and become who she now understood she was meant to become…

She sighed and looked down at the bed she had been stripping, and new, clean sheets she was to put on it, a task that only a few years ago she had no idea how to go about performing, but thanks to her training in York, she was, for lack of a better word, an "expert at it"…or at least an expert compared to anyone in her family.

Yes…perhaps she shouldn't judge Major Gordon, whoever he was, too harshly. After all, wouldn't she be doing the same thing? Running away, leaving nothing but a letter (hers would be a little more detailed than his) as her only explanation and last goodbye?

_You're settling,_ a voice rose up in the back of her head, sounding very stern and condescending. _Didn't you accuse Mary of doing the same? Didn't you yell at her about how the world would only remain the way it was unless people took a stand and demanded it to change for the better? Demand that change in them! Make them see your side! DO NOT SETTLE!_

"Shut up!"

"Oh!" Jenny, the village girl who was often helping with the convalescent home, and who was passing by, jumped at Sybil's sudden angry outburst.

Sybil bit her lip and quickly shook her head. "No, no, I'm sorry Jenny, I didn't mean you, I…" she turned red and went back to the task she was working on. "Just…thinking about something, that's all," she muttered.

Jenny nibbled her lip nervously. "Is…is everything alright, Nurse Crawley?"

Sybil put on a smile and nodded her head. "Yes, yes, everything is fine—everything _will be_ fine," she added for emphasis. The girl nodded back, and then went about whatever task she had been asked to perform, leaving Sybil alone once more. "Everything will be fine…" she whispered again, this time to herself. Yes, everything would be fine…for Edith, for Mary, for Matthew…and for both herself and Tom. She would just have to have faith that even if her sisters were no longer speaking to her, that everything in the end, would be fine.


	123. A New Age

_So as I mentioned in the intro to my last chapter, I have some BIG PLANS for Edith down the road when it comes to Sybil and Tom's relationship, so here's another chapter where Edith takes a bit of the center stage, only this time with Branson. While this chapter took me a long time to write, I am quite pleased with it; I do like to think that Tom and Edith became good friends; I like to think that it started back when he was teaching her how to drive, and that she was the first Crawley member to really support Tom and Sybil's romance. But more on that later ;o) Anyway, hope you enjoy and thanks so much for the lovely reviews! I'm going to dedicate this chapter to **Queenlovett** who's a hardcore Edith/Anthony shipper, but also a friend and supporter of Sybil/Tom, and who shares my thoughts about Edith and the Branson's. HAPPY READING!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Twenty-Three<strong>

At ten minutes till eleven, Tom was in the Servant's Hall, his boots polished and the buttons on his uniform shining. Even though he wasn't a soldier, and even though he had been against the War from the beginning, that didn't mean he shouldn't look his best, especially as he thought by doing so, would be a way to honor William, and all those boys and men from back home who had given their lives to a cause that oppressive politicians demanded they do, while denying them some basic rights and freedoms in their own land. But despite all those feelings, he was glad that it had finally come to an end.

At exactly five minutes to eleven, Mr. Carson led them all upstairs to the hall, where the officers were assembled, standing on one side of the room, each doing their best to look proud, when he could see, just under the surface, the relief and anxiety of what would happen next…and perhaps the question as to what it had all been about, in the end?

Like a regiment of troops, Mr. Carson had all of them stand on the opposite side of the hall, facing the officers, while his Lordship and the rest of the Crawley family entered and stood off to his right, his Lordship coming towards the center of the room.

Tom's eyes moved past his Lordship…to the stoic looking nurse who stood just a few feet behind her father.

God, she could put a general to shame with how straight-backed and proud she stood, he thought. In many ways she was a soldier, just of a different sort of regiment, and who fought very different battles. And even though her expression betrayed very little, if any emotion whatsoever, he couldn't help but smile, slightly, at the sight of her…or feel his chest swell with pride. Sybil had that effect on him.

His Lordship was standing in the middle of the room, his hands clasped behind him, and began to address everyone there. "I think when the clock strikes we should all make a silent prayer, to mark the finish of this terrible war and what that means for each and every one of us."

Like Sybil and all the officers in the room, Tom found himself also adopting a similar stance, his own hands clasping tightly behind his back, his own shoulders squaring, his own spine going rigid, his chin jutting out ever so slightly, as a soldier would be trained to do when standing at attention.

Yes…the War finally being over meant a great many things. It meant that Ireland's fight for freedom would take a new turn now. No longer would it be "ignored" by the majority of the British press and politicians, but would now take center stage—which also sadly meant that the firepower on both sides would begin to launch anew. An end to the War would also mean more change in the world; democracies, republics, people's rebellions, worker unions, social equality for people of all classes, of all nations, men and women!

But of course…an end of the War meant…a new future…for both he and Sybil.

She had asked him to wait until the War was over. Now it was over. Now he just needed to wait until she gave him her answer, and as much as he wished it meant that that very afternoon the two of them would be bound for Liverpool to take the next available boat to Ireland, he knew it wouldn't be as simple as all that. No…it was never going to be simple. But he had meant what he had said to her in the garage that day: he _would_ wait forever…because in his heart, he knew she was worth it.

"Let us remember the sacrifices that have been made," his Lordship continued. "And the men who will never come back…"

_William._

Dear William. Who had been so eager to do his part—who had been ready to enlist the day the War was announced. William…who found both honor and pride in serving his country, and who never once showed any signs of fear at the possibility of losing his life. Even when he was brought back, and knew that he was dying…he faced death with nothing but the greatest courage.

Tom swallowed the lump in his throat as his Lordship reminded all of them to give those fallen men their thanks, and just as soon as the words had been uttered, the clock on the mantle chimed, and a hallowed silence filled the room.

William wasn't the only man to have fallen. With each chime Tom thought about other fallen soldiers, both the ones who were eager to enlist…and the ones who were forced because of a simple piece of paper. He was sure there were many back home, many lads he had gone to school with, many more from his neighborhood. There were many here, in the village, who had lost their lives, such as Jane's husband, and various relatives of other members of staff, like Mrs. Patmore's nephew. And many who had somehow managed to survive, but whose scars cut far deeper than the visible stitches on their skin. Yes…while those men, like Mr. Lang and Capt. Crawley, may be seen living and breathing, they had not "come back" as the same men.

He heard a soft sniffling sound coming from his left; Jane stood there, no doubt thinking of her husband…and how her son would have to grow up without a father.

To his other side stood Anna, who also mourned the loss of William, and who reached now for Mr. Bates' hand. Tom's eyes briefly darted across the room to where Sybil stood; he could not deny that a part of him longed to be standing next to her…so he could once again feel her fingers in his. Was she thinking about William too? He was sure she was. He was sure she was thinking of William, as well as those friends of hers who had died when the War began, including that other Tom, the one who had caused him such jealousy so many years ago. It all seemed so foolish now, in retrospect. No doubt she was also thinking of those men whom she had worked with, both at the hospital and here at the house. Some of those men returned to the front, and were never seen or heard from again. Some of them remained here, but were now only shells of the men they had been before the War. As he looked across the room at all the officers standing or sitting up as best they could to attention, he thought that none of them could hold a candle to the steadfast bravery that was Nurse Sybil Crawley.

The chimes ended. The hour had struck. The War was, officially now, over.

"Thank you, everyone," Lord Grantham's voice filled the room once more. Tom relaxed his stance, only slightly, and turned his head to his Lordship as he continued to address the room. "Remember, this is not just the end of a long war, but it is the dawn of a new age…"

_The dawn of a new age._

Did his Lordship have any idea how profound those words were? Tom had been saying for so long, had been holding true to this belief that once the War was over…the world truly would be a different place, and not simply because it had somehow managed to survive so many years of horrible bloodshed, but because now, the time of the common man, the "every day" man, was here. Men, and women, who worked hard, would no longer be deemed "unfit for society" simply because they weren't born into wealth. New ideas, ideas for equal rights, ideas for social justice, ideas for freedom to all people, including his beloved Ireland…

Ideas where…it wouldn't seem so absurd that a working class Irishman like himself…could marry a fine English lady.

_The dawn of a new age…_

He closed his eyes and breathed in, and then slowly exhaled. Today…that new age had begun.

"God bless you all!" his Lordship said to everyone gathered, and all of them murmured the same back and to one another. In many ways, this was to be a time of celebration, of joy for this new age, but Tom knew that that joy would come later. Right now, it was a somber occasion, a time of remembrance. And he would respect that.

He lifted his eyes towards Sybil, and for the briefest moment, caught her gaze.

He wanted to go to her. He wanted to embrace her. God knows he wanted to kiss her again! But he didn't—nor could he, not right now. Perhaps later? Lord, he prayed that would be possible; he prayed that she would come to him before the day was over, just…just for any reason, really. She didn't need to have any purpose for her visit…he just wanted to be with her, again.

…And God willing, a year from now, he wouldn't have to experience a day where he couldn't be with her…or where he couldn't reach over and touch her, the way Anna and Bates had touched.

God willing, a year from now…she would be his wife.

Instead, however, Tom was more or less "forced" to follow the rest of the servants out of the room, just as the rest of the officers turned and filed in the other direction. As much as he wished to turn his head and look over his shoulder and catch her eyes once again, he knew that Mr. Carson was there, and so instead continued moving forward, his jaw set and his back rigid as he left the room. The rest of the staff returned to the Servant's Hall. He, however, walked past, and continued until he was outside, back at the garage, back at his "proper place", there at Downton Abbey.

The weather was decent, especially for November. Not only was it dry, but it was also somewhat warm. He could probably get by without his jacket, and needed to wash the Renault after the long drive to and from York, that he had taken his Lordship on the other day. He sighed and was about to shrug his jacket off…when he noticed out of the corner of his eye a figure walking through the gardens just to his left.

His first thought was that the figure was Sybil, and he quickly turned to see if he was right. But no…the woman, while finely dressed, was not Sybil but rather…Lady Edith?

Tom frowned as he watched her trudge forward, where…he wasn't sure exactly. But she passed the garage…passed the wooded area surrounding it…and continued on through the gardens, continued heading west, where at the far end of the a long grassy lawn lay what the servants referred to as "Downton's Stonehenge". And…was she crying?

Tom's frown deepened as he watched Lady Edith quickly wipe at her cheeks, while every so often glancing down at a piece of paper which she clutched tightly in her hand. The last time he had spoken to Lady Edith was when William was there and she was watching over him. She had chastised him for bringing a flask into William's room, gave him a stern warning about not giving any to the lad, before stepping out of the room to let the two of them talk. He liked Lady Edith, he respected her; he felt sorry for her, sometimes, because he did feel that she was a little neglected by her family. And even though she was a bit erratic and stubborn when he was trying to teach her how to drive…she did open up to him, and told him things in confidence that certainly made him feel like she saw him as an equal, in some respects. And in all honesty, he had a feeling getting along with Lady Edith would be much easier than with Lady Mary, especially after the truth about both he and Sybil was learned by the rest of them.

"I wonder what's upset her?" he murmured to himself. He shook his head, telling himself it didn't matter, not really. No doubt she was simply feeling emotional, like so many others on this solemn day. He sighed and once again began to shrug his jacket off, preparing to go about the task of washing the Renault.

However…as he was picking up the bucket, ready to take it to the outdoor spigot just behind the garage, he paused…and frowned as he tried to remember where…that strange, bandaged man was…when the rest of them were gathered in the hall.

The bandaged man…he couldn't remember his name, just knew that both he and Lady Edith had become very close over the past few weeks. All he really knew about the bandaged man was that he was from Canada…and he thought he had heard, gossiped at some point in the Servant's Hall when neither Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson were looking, that he had some sort of "claim" to Downton Abbey. Tom frowned at this; how was that possible? If he and Sybil had had a chance to have a proper conversation, even for five minutes over the last few days, he would have asked her what was going on with the strange bandaged man, but there had been very little chance.

Still…where had he been today?

Tom put the bucket down and turned back towards the garage door. His Lordship had no plans to travel until much later that afternoon, and then it would only be to Ripon. He could steal away for a little bit, surely? He would still have plenty of time to wash the car before the trip…

He shrugged the jacket back on and looked out toward the path that Lady Edith had taken, he could see her in the far distance, stopping upon finally reaching the old ruins, and despite his better judgment, questioning himself as to why he was doing this, he soon found himself walking away from the garage and up the garden path towards the lawn that would eventually lead to where Lady Edith had gone.

It didn't take him long to get there…but by the time he had arrived, his suspicions about whether or not she had been crying were most certainly confirmed. She sat there, her back to a column, her hand covering her mouth as she choked back the sobs, while tears stained her pretty cheeks and her eyes flew back and forth across the single sheet of paper which she held.

_I shouldn't be here_, he suddenly realized. While he didn't know the story behind her grief, a person was allowed to grieve alone. Hadn't he grieved all by himself, that day when Martin's letter had arrived? Hadn't he wanted the solitude then? Hadn't Sybil sought solitude that day when she had received word that the "other Tom" had died? Yes…yes, this was a mistake, he was intruding…he should turn around and go back before she noticed—

"B-B-Branson?"

Too late. And he was so far away from the garage that he wouldn't have a proper excuse—

"W-w-what are you doing here?" she stammered, swallowing the tears in her voice and slowly rising to her feet as she stared at him with a look that certainly seemed to accuse him of intrusion.

He closed his eyes, and bowed his head slightly. There was only one acceptable answer.

"Forgive me, milady, I…I saw you, just a few minutes earlier, and…and you looked upset."

He lifted his eyes slightly and was grateful to see that Lady Edith wasn't sending him a cold look of outrage, but rather…she was looking down at her feet, and biting her lip…and fumbling with the letter between her fingers.

"Forgive me…milady…" he murmured again, his own eyes falling to her letter, before lifting once more to her face. "I'm sorry for the intrusion, but…is there anything I can do?"

She lifted her eyes then, the edges pink and puffy from her crying. She opened her mouth, as if to tell him that no, of course there wasn't anything he could do, or perhaps to simply thank him for his sympathy, but she would prefer to be alone right now—however, instead of saying any of these things, she stared into his eyes and then asked, point blank, "Have you ever been in love, Branson?"

To say he was unprepared for her question would be an understatement. Tom actually had to reach out to grip another nearby column amongst the ruins to keep his balance. "I…I…b-b-beggin' your pardon, milady?" he practically squeaked, before coughing and acting as if he were trying to clear his throat.

Lady Edith sighed and looked down at the paper she held once more. He wasn't entirely sure why she had asked him that question, but he gathered judging from the way she stood and looked, she didn't suspect anything between him and Sybil.

"When you were in Ireland…was there some girl you fancied?"

Yes, there were certainly girls he had fancied when he was in Ireland, but fancying a girl and being in love were two very different things.

"Or perhaps here, in England…do you have a sweetheart here?"

Oh God, what could he say? "I…" he swallowed the nervous lump in his throat. "There has been, milady," he mumbled, realizing that was really the best he could do for the moment. Oh Lord, why had he followed her here?

Lady Edith simply nodded her head and tried to force a smile, while at the same time wiping furiously at her cheeks.

"I've been in love," she muttered suddenly. "More than once, perhaps," she added, biting her bottom lip and letting her eyes wander towards the house and perhaps beyond it. "But…I've always heard that your first love is the one you remember forever…"

Sybil was his first love—she was his _only_ love. He had danced, kissed, courted, and…done a few other things…with some girls back in Ireland, but he had never _loved_ any of them…or at least never felt this sort of passion, this unquenchable desire to be with them for the rest of his life…as he did now, with Sybil Crawley.

"For as long as I can remember, I loved Patrick…" Lady Edith continued, and Tom was jolted once more from his own thoughts to that of Sybil's sister. "I…I was so…" she paused, as if trying to collect herself. Tom realized then he was being obtuse, and knew that if his mother were standing there, she would smack him across the back of the head for not offering her his handkerchief, which he quickly did. "Thank you," she mumbled, taking it and blowing her nose.

"My pleasure, milady," he murmured, his hand gesturing that she keep it.

She nodded her head in thanks and clutched the handkerchief to her chest…as she once again gazed down at the piece of paper in her hand.

Why would she bring up Patrick? He remembered her telling him once about Patrick Crawley, the original heir to Downton, before the tragedy of the Titanic. He remembered Lady Edith speaking so highly of her cousin that he realized after a few, brief sentences that she had been in love with him. It was very similar to how he felt about Sybil.

"I can trust you, can't I Branson?"

Tom was surprised by the question, but he didn't hesitate to answer. "Of course, milady. Anything you wish to say will be held in the strictest confidence, I promise."

She nodded her head in thanks, a tiny smile lifting at the corner of her lips…before throwing her hands up into the air and letting out a groan of frustration. "There was a man—a patient here, named…name Major Gordon—"

Tom's brow furrowed. Was she…was she talking about…the bandaged man?

"—He was badly injured, to the point where he was unrecognizable due to his scars and bandages," she continued.

Good God, she _was_ talking about the bandaged man! But…but what did this have to do…?

"Major Gordon…well…he…he…" she paused and took a deep breath. "He claimed to be…to be Patrick."

Tom's eyes widened suddenly at this. The bandaged man had claimed to be the original heir to Downton Abbey? The heir who had drowned on the Titanic? Who had been missing for…six years? Seven? _This man_…who hardly had any face left, and who also happened to speak with a Canadian accent…was claiming to be none other than _Patrick Crawley?_

What could he say? What was he supposed to say? Should he say anything? Certainly a million questions were flying through his head, but…was it right for him to ask any of them? Still…while Lady Edith wasn't Sybil, he felt he could approach her perhaps a little better than some of the other members of the Crawley family.

"Have…have you mentioned this to his Lordship?"

Lady Edith nodded her head, biting back another sob and quickly taking his handkerchief and using it to dab her eyes. "They all know," she managed to moan, after a few quick breaths. "I told Papa quite some time ago actually—I must say I'm amazed that you didn't know—I thought for sure it would be the gossip of the Servant's Hall."

Tom gave her a sympathetic smile. "Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes wouldn't allow for such things to be discussed, not in their hearing, certainly," he murmured. "And…I'm not in the Servant's Hall a great deal, milady," he also added.

Lady Edith sniffed and nodded her head. "No, of course. Well, I'm grateful to know it wasn't the highlight of every dinner conversation," she added with a groan. She turned her gaze back towards the house. "Papa was startled, of course; he gathered us all together one evening to tell everyone what I had told him, what Patrick had told me…"

Tom noticed how she had referred to Major Gordon. Did she believe the bandaged man's tale? Or…was it simply wishful thinking?

"No one believed him," she muttered bitterly. "They didn't want to believe it. Papa sent word to his lawyers to investigate the matter, but it was clear even before the investigation took place that they were all convinced it wasn't him. Especially Mary," she spat with a great deal of vehemence.

Tom winced slightly at the anger he heard in her voice. The bad blood between the two older Crawley sisters continued to brew, even after all these years.

"And…what were their findings?" he asked in a soft voice.

Lady Edith stiffened slightly at this and Tom wondered if perhaps he had overstepped a line in asking his question. He wondered if he should offer an apology, but she stopped him from doing so by answering.

"There…there was evidence that…that proved he was who he says he was—is!" she quickly corrected, looking bitterly ashamed for the slip of the tongue. Tom's heart went out to her. She took a few deep breaths, and then wrapped her arms around herself, turning her back fully on him and gazing across the lawn towards the house. "But…there…there was also evidence that…that…that…"

"That left many questions," he finished for her.

She turned and looked at him, and despite the tears he could still see on her face, the corners of her mouth lifted slightly, as if offering him a grateful smile for his phrasing, and not immediately jumping to the same conclusions that everyone else seemed to have made.

She turned back and gazed at the stone ruins of whatever had laid there, long before either of them had been born. "We were just here the other day," she whispered. He knew who she meant. "I…I had told him about the lawyer's findings…but I also told him that I wasn't prepared to give up, that we would find a way to prove the truth to everyone!" Despite the passion with which she spoke, the pain in her voice was even more evident than before. Tom glanced down at the crumpled letter which she still clutched in one of her hands. And he thought back to how he had not seen this Major Gordon in the hall that morning.

Despite Lady Edith's wishes and beliefs, it seemed that Major Gordon had realized that the game was up…and it was time to flee. And no doubt that piece of paper was his goodbye.

Indeed, Tom knew very well how relieving and damning a few simple words on a piece of paper could be.

"You know…" she continued, her voice trying to sound strong despite the obvious emotion that threatened to burst forth. "You know, he told me…he told me that…that he couldn't remember Mary very well, but…but he remembered me…" she hugged herself even tighter then. "He remembered me…" she repeated, her words nothing more than a whisper. "He remembered me and I…I recognized him!" her hand flew to her mouth then and she turned her head away once more, while her body shook with silent sobs. Tom felt absolutely helpless.

"Milady…" he whispered, unsure what to do. He knew what he would do if it were Sybil, or Gwen, or Anna, or Daisy, or one of his sisters. He would tell them it was alright to cry, to let their emotions out, to not hold back, and if they so wished, he would hold them and let them lean on him for support while releasing everything inside. But he couldn't very well do that with Lady Edith…even if he did think that the two of them had become friends. "Milady…" he began again, wanting to provide some words of comfort. "I don't know a great deal about...about this man…" he felt it best to call the bandaged man thus rather than use either possible name. "But…I do know that clearly, you gave him something to hope for, to help him while he was healing…and that is indeed worth something."

She looked at him and there seemed to be something flickering in her eyes; some sort of...understanding. "You…" she managed to say past her sniffles. "You sound like Sybil."

His eyes widened at her words. "I…I…I do?" he asked, before once again coughing as if clearing his throat to cover up his surprise.

She nodded her head. "She said something similarly to me the other day."

_Of course she did,_ he found himself thinking. He couldn't deny that the thought brought a smile to his face. His sweet Sybil…

He looked back at Lady Edith, wanting to do something to help her with her sorrow. And really, there was only one thing he could think of offering that would help.

"Would you care to go for a drive, milady?"

She quickly wiped at her eyes and stared at him with confusion. "A…a drive?" she repeated.

He nodded his head. "It's a fair day; and his Lordship won't need me for a few hours, and all I really have to do is clean the Renault, but that won't take me too long…so…why not go for a drive?"

She still looked a little confused…but he could see some light return to her eyes at the suggestion.

"When you say 'go for a drive', do you mean…_I_ get to drive?"

He smiled and nodded his head. "That's right," before adding with a bit a teasing lilt in his voice, "you drive, and I'll cling to the door for my life."

"I'm not _that_ bad, honestly!" she huffed, but he was glad to see the amusement in her eyes, as well as hear it in her voice. No, she really wasn't, not anymore at least.

She nibbled her bottom lip and looked up at him with a flicker of mischief in her eyes. "Can we go to some of the back roads? And can I drive as fast as I'd like?"

Tom paled slightly at the question. Yes, Lady Edith had improved a great deal since when she had first gotten behind the wheel, but that didn't mean she was ready for a racetrack.

She laughed then…actually laughed, which despite the question she had just asked did cause him to smile.

"Don't worry, Branson, I won't go _that_ fast," she assured.

"Of course," he murmured, although there was still a bit of a nervous edge to his voice.

She was smiling now. Yes, the sadness could still be seen in the depths of her eyes, but despite it, she was beaming. "Thank you, Branson," she murmured. "A drive actually sounds rather perfect."

* * *

><p>It was dark by the time he and his Lordship had returned. The meeting had gone much longer than his Lordship had anticipated, but it seemed to be worth it, now that the War was over. At least that was what his Lordship had said to him on the drive back. Tom parked the Renault in the garage after letting his Lordship out at the front door, and then with a groan, rubbed the muscles of his back as he climbed out, feeling extremely tired after the activity of the day, and decided to simply retreat to his cottage to make himself a small meal in the cottage kitchen, and get an early rest. He would have to drive to Manchester tomorrow, and his Lordship had warned him it would be early.<p>

Indeed, it had been a very full day. The drive with Lady Edith had not been short, but Tom didn't mind. She seemed to brighten with every mile they drove, and while it was nerve-wracking in some moments, the sharp turns she would take, and the increased speeds she would go, he was glad he had been able to offer her something as simple as this, to help take her mind off her broken heart.

Of course, the "vigorous" drive had resulted in "muddying up" the Renault even more, and so as soon as they had returned, Tom had to quickly wash and scrub the car as best he could, before driving his Lordship to Ripon. Yes, it had been a busy day and evening, and all he wanted right now was a hot bath and a soft bed.

…Well, that wasn't _all_ he wanted. And the thought of a hot bath brought that _other_ want and need and hope back to his mind in a way that left his imagination reeling and his body groaning. Perhaps a cold bath would be better?

He shrugged out of his jacket and stepped through the cottage door, but paused as his foot crunched atop something. It was dark inside, so he quickly moved to turn on a lamp, before looking down at what he had stepped on…and felt his heart leap at the sight of the small piece of paper.

He wasted no time in snatching it up and shutting his door, bolting it even, before quickly opening it.

_Tom…_

Lord, how it caused his body to shiver, simply to see her address him by his first name, even on paper.

_I came by the garage earlier, but learned that you were gone. Carson said something about driving Edith somewhere. I had hoped to see you, but I didn't know how long you would be away. I had hoped to catch you before you left with Papa to Ripon, but a nurse was taken ill, and they rang the house, asking for help, so I had Pratt drive me. But before I left, I managed to write this letter, which isn't much, really but…I just wanted to say…I'm glad that the War is over. I mean, yes, we're all glad for that, but…but I am glad for…for other reasons, too. Reasons that…that only you and I know._

_ I made my promise, and I will keep it. I will give you an answer, and soon. But…but first I need to uphold the promise I made when I became a nurse, to seeing my duties here to the end. I pray this doesn't upset you, and…and I hope you can understand. But please, please rest assured that I haven't forgotten, and I'm not trying to create excuses, honestly. And I meant what I said, that I'm not asking for forever, although you should know that…that those words have been with me ever since you spoke them. _

_ Just a little longer, Tom. Just a little longer._

_ …I suppose, what I'm asking of you is…to bet on me, now._

_With deep affection,_

—_Sybil _

A long, shaky breath escaped his lungs then.

No, they would not be leaving right away, but he had been prepared for that, and yes, he did understand her sense of honor and duty to her job; he understood it and respected it. Yes, the delay frustrated him a little bit; he couldn't deny that, but…if anything, her sense of duty only made him love her more.

But hearing those words, seeing that reassurance that she would answer him, that she wasn't trying to create excuses, that she was glad the War was over for _this reason_ as well as the many others…and then her last words…asking him to now, bet on her. To have faith in her and faith that she would answer him, and soon…

His heart overflowed.

He took the letter, and lovingly placed it by his bedside; he knew he would be reading it over and over before falling asleep.

_Bet on me…_

"Aye, I can do that," he whispered. Perhaps…perhaps he did have enough energy to take a quick stroll through the gardens, and pause briefly under a certain willow tree? He smiled at the thought, shrugging the jacket back on his shoulders.

Yes…this was the dawn of a new age, as his Lordship had reminded all of them that morning. And God willing, Tom would be facing that new age with Sybil by his side.


	124. Branson's Journal XIV

_Only one more chapter after this one, before we finally venture into the "final volume" of this very long story, and the final episodes S2. I always try to write chapters, no matter what manner in which they appear (diary, letter, POV, etc.) that deal with events that I feel may have some sort of effect on Sybil and Tom, even if that event has very little to do with them. As I mentioned in the last few chapters (which brought Edith center-stage) she will have a large part to play for these two in the near future. In this chapter, Branson talks a little bit about what's happening in the lives of his friends, partially because I like to think he was quite close with some of the other servants, and because this will pave the way for some plans that I have for Love's Continuing Journey. Anyway, enough intro, thanks for reading, and please leave a comment! _

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Twenty-Four<strong>

November 15, 1918

The War may truly, officially be over, but a new sort of storm appears to be brewing.

I was in the Servant's Hall today, taking a break from working in the garage (it's gotten considerably colder), and Bates and Anna were sitting at the table, having a cup of tea and invited me to join them. It was quiet and pleasant, and soon Jane entered and joined us…and then Thomas and O'Brien emerged like two rats, creeping back in, and the jovial mood immediately began to disappear.

We were talking about…life…now that the War is over. Anna wondered what my thoughts were, especially after hearing my conversation with Mr. Carson about how I thought Germany would become a republic. Mr. Bates asked if I thought the War ending would have any effect on Ireland's hope for a free state. Jane however, wanted to keep the conversation at a far smaller scale, and simply asked Anna and Bates about their wedding plans, and what they would do after they got married. He smiled a little at this, but noticed that while Anna returned Jane's smile…Mr. Bates didn't look so pleased. He's been back and forth to London so much, fighting with his wife for the divorce, and I know things have gotten particularly harder for him (the other day he returned from London with a nasty cut just above his eye)—but…I suppose that won't be an issue anymore.

…

We didn't have to worry about Thomas and Miss O'Brien's sudden arrival for very long. For no sooner had they settled at the table, did Mr. Carson enter the room, carrying the post and handing Bates a special telegram.

…

I can't deny, every time I see one of those things, my blood seems to freeze. I keep remembering that telegram that told me about Martin…

…Nothing good comes from such telegrams…and…and I honestly don't know what to make of this one. I'm not sure what Bates seems to make of it, to be honest. But…but I can't help but worry for both he and Anna…

…

…

His wife is dead.

I don't know the details, even though I was burning with curiosity, but with both Thomas and O'Brien there, I wouldn't dare ask. But…just like that, one day she's a thorn in his side, lashing out at him hard enough to leave scars and bruises, and the next…she's gone. Just like that…

…

So…what will this mean for them both? I mean, the first thing I thought (even though I didn't dare say it) was…that they're finally free. She's gone…she's gone for good! And God forgive me, I know that sounds harsh, but…even though I never met the woman beyond a passing glance, the way she strived to make their lives miserable, the way she fought against that divorce, even though she doesn't love him, she doesn't care about him, all she wants to do is hurt him and Anna, and I'll forgive _anyone_ who tries to hurt someone as good, kind, and sweet as Anna—I…I can't deny it, the first thing that popped in my head was "good riddance". And Lord, how my mother would slap my face for saying such words, let alone thinking them. And…and she'd be right, of course. Sybil would probably do the same thing, although I think the two of us are a little closer in how we "passionately overreact" to things that upset us. Still…does this mean that Bates and Anna's nightmare is finally over? Will they finally, at last, be able to marry?

Sybil will insist on staying if they do. She wouldn't want to miss Anna's wedding, and I can't blame her. In fact, I wouldn't want to miss it either, so perhaps that can be our goal? We stay at Downton long enough to see our friends marry…before leaving ourselves to embark on our own future as husband and wife?

…

…

…Assuming, of course that she says yes.

God, I…I don't know, I mean, I…I am fairly certain she returns my feelings, that…that yes, yes, not only does she love me, but that she does want to marry me, that she will leave with me, travel back to Ireland, and become my wife. I mean, if that kiss we had shared wasn't enough evidence, the time she popped down to the garage, asking if I would wait just a little longer before she could give her answer…and then…and then the letter she left…

I confess; I can't stop grinning every time I think about that letter. It has kept a permanent place by my bedside (folded and hidden inside the book I keep there) and every night, just before I go to sleep, I reread again—sometimes twice. It brings such a smile to my face, seeing those same words I asked of her now being repeated and asked of me: _BET ON ME._

I do, Sybil, I do—and I will. I will always bet on you, no matter the odds.

Surely this…this is practically a declaration of "yes"? I mean…what else can it be? I know, I know, I always hope a little too much, it's always been my downfall, but at the same time…how can I not be hopeful by such a letter? How can I not be optimistic that…that she will be mine, just as I am and will always be hers?

…

…

But she will want to stay for Anna's wedding, of course.

Lord, how I remember she was at Gwen's wedding. That's it; I'm not letting anyone, be he a younger brother of the groom or not, dance with her. I can say it's to keep her feet and ankles safe, but in truth…it's because I want nothing more than to hold her against me the entire night.

God, if I could have my way, I would hold her against me every minute for the rest of my life, waking and sleeping.

Gwen would come to Anna's wedding, of course. It would be good to see her again; it would be good for all three of us to share a laugh, like we used to. I remember once, long ago, back when Gwen still worked here, that she liked to think of three of us as "the three musketeers of Downton". I just like the idea of standing beside Sybil, my hand free to rest against her back…or my arm free to move around her waist…sharing a glass of something, while talking and laughing with Gwen and her husband. And perhaps Anna and Bates, as well? Three couples…married or on their way to be married…free to openly show the world who we are.

…

I…I know it won't be that easy, but…well, Sybil once said to me that dreams and ambitions don't have to be so far removed, that dreams can become ambitions if we try hard enough.

…

As if I need another reason to love that woman. God, please…let her answer be soon. I meant what I said, I would and will wait forever, but…please, please, I just…I want her so much. To hold her, to kiss her, to tell her everything that's in my heart and not have to live with the fear of being caught doing something I shouldn't be doing.

And, while I know things seem dark right now for my friends, I am hopeful that despite this tragic news, this will be a positive turn for Anna and Mr. Bates. Truly, they do deserve it, and that is my prayer for them both.

That's all I want for all of my friends here: happiness.

It's so funny, when I think back. When I arrived her, I didn't think I would make any friends; I assumed I would be left alone, keep to myself, to my cottage, to my job; just his Lordship's cars for company, really. And then…despite Miss O'Brien's blatant disapproval of my presence at dinner, I found myself invited to come and stay for meals more often in the Servant's Hall, and I did manage to make friends—with several housemaids and a kitchen maid, all of whom remind me of a sisters a little; with Mr. Bates and…and dear William. With Mrs. Hughes, and yes, perhaps even with Mr. Carson, as well. And I never expected any sort of friendship to develop between myself and Sybil's sisters, but…the more and more I have gotten to know Lady Edith, the more I can't deny that I do like her and can easily see, perhaps, she being our strongest advocate, for Sybil and myself. And perhaps Mr. Matthew too; I don't know as well as I would like, but I do admire and respect him. He seems like the sort who will straighten the aristocracy out, when he becomes Earl of Grantham (nothing against his Lordship—he truly is a fine man and the best employer I have ever had, but…he's just blind to the evil that his class can inflict, and I'm not sure if he'll ever open his eyes wide enough to see that evil—whereas I think Mr. Matthew will).

And of course…Sybil.

Sybil was a complete surprise. Never would I have imagined that not only would I take a fancy to the youngest daughter of my employer, and an English aristocrat to boot, but that I would fall so deeply…so, so deeply…that even if she refuses me, I know I could never be happy with another woman, and will resign myself to live out the rest of my days as a celibate bachelor.

My feelings for Sybil are far deeper than "fancy" or "lust", even. And after finally having that opportunity to kiss her, I realized, as I've always known, that one kiss from her lips will never be enough. And ever since our hands clasped at the Garden Party…ever since I carried her in my arms after the Count in Ripon…ever since I had the opportunity to hold her in my arms and feel her body against my own…one touch, one embrace, one…

One will never, ever be enough with Sybil.

…

…

I pray for good health and happiness to all my friends here. I will miss them, when the time comes for my departure. I wish Anna and Bates joy; I wish Daisy to find some sort of…reconciliation; that she realizes what she did for William was indeed a great kindness, and that she can forgive herself. Ethel, wherever you are, while I know we never got on very well, I wish you the best too; you and your wee one. I wish good will and fortune to Mrs. Patmore, Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. Carson—especially if the rumors are true and Mr. Carson does leave Downton to go and serve as butler for Lady Mary and her fiancée. And…while I know it will be a shock and perhaps very difficult for them to accept us…I do wish for the best to all of Sybil's family—and pray that for her sake, more than my own, that they come around and accept her decisions.

…And yes, I even wish good things for Thomas and Miss O'Brien. But not before everyone else.

…

I keep thinking about those words his Lordship had said to us on the 11th; about now being the dawn of a new age…

I hope he meant it. I hope he wasn't just saying that because it seemed like the right thing to say; I truly hope he believes that.

Because I do. And have, for quite some time. I have always felt that the world was changing, and for the better; it's the only thing I can take away from this horrible war, that after so much hatred and so much bloodshed, the world has woken up and realizes it needs to change for the better; for the Good of all people. That is the new age I am seeking, in a free Ireland, where people are treated as equals, where the English and the Irish, the Catholic and the Protestant can be respectful one another and live in peace…and where each new day is greeted with Sybil by my side.

That's all I've ever wanted. That's all I've ever wished for.


	125. What the Mistletoe Saw

_Ok! It's a looooooooooong one! But I don't think you'll mind ;o) This is the last chapter of this particular "Volume". Starting with Chapter 126, we will move onto Volume III, which will explore Sybil and Tom's struggles to get married, announce their engagement, say goodbye to Downton, and ultimately move to Ireland (and yes! THERE WILL BE DUBLIN SCENES!) But I wanted something fun before "leaping off" into that new world, and so here it is...Christmas at Downton Abbey, 1918 style. Hope you enjoy! ALSO...this chapter is probably a "T" rated chapter. I'm not going to up the rating on the story, I don't think overall it needs it, but just so people are aware, this particular chapter is rated T._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Twenty-Five<strong>

It was early December when Mr. Carson brought them the announcement.

There was to be a Servant's Ball at Downton this year. The first Servant's Ball since 1914.

The news was taken favorably by most, only a few of the kitchen lads and hall boys looked disgruntled at the thought, but for the most part (especially amongst the maids) this was happy news indeed. And even though Tom did his best to hide his true emotions at the announcement, inside his chest, his heart was turning cartwheels.

A Servant's Ball. A celebration where all the members from downstairs were not only invited to talk and laugh and be merry with his Lordship's family, but were also encouraged to dance with them. Tom had always found it a strange and terrible twist of irony that he and Sybil had never had the chance to experience this; the one time and place where no one would frown if he asked the Earl of Grantham's youngest daughter to dance. Tom closed his eyes, and worked hard to suppress the groan that rose up in his throat at the thought of being able to hold her again.

In 1913, his first Christmas at Downton, Sybil had taken ill and was unable to attend the Servant's Ball. Even though it was before Tom realized his growing feelings for the youngest Crawley sister, he saw no point in attending if she wasn't going to be there. In 1914, the last time a Servant's Ball had been held, Tom was "called away", in a manner of speaking, to attend his sister's wedding. He couldn't deny that while he was happy for Kathleen, and glad to see his family (especially since that was the last time he had seen them all together…including Martin), he was disappointed that he was missing the opportunity to dance with Sybil—especially since now he realized that yes, he was very much in love with her. Because of the War, there had been no Servant Balls in the years that passed; Christmas at Downton Abbey had become a very somber occasion, with the exception of the previous year, when Lady Edith had arranged a party of sorts for all the officers. There hadn't been any dancing, but it had certainly cheered the place up, and Tom remembered admiring Sybil from across the hall. But now…now, at last…there would indeed be a Servant's Ball—and both he and Sybil would be there.

Usually the Servant's Balls were held on Twelfth Night, but Mr. Carson told them that it would actually take place on Christmas (much to the Dowager Countess' horror, Tom couldn't help but think) and it would include all of the officers who were still recuperating, of course. In all honesty, Tom didn't care about who was coming, who was invited, or when it was taking place, so long as Sybil was there and he could dance with her. _But you have to be careful_, he reminded himself. _You can't linger by her side the entire night, nor can you steal every dance; Lady Mary knows, remember that. And Mrs. Hughes has always been suspicious…_

Yes, he would have to be on his guard, from himself of all people. He would need to dance with some of the other Crawley ladies so as not to cause any suspicion (although he wasn't sure if he could dance with Lady Mary; that might just be a little too awkward). He would also need to be careful when he did dance with Sybil—not to hold her too closely, not to look too longingly into her eyes…oh God, this was going to be difficult. But he nearly had an entire month to prepare himself…which suddenly brought on a new realization…

What if there was a waltz?

He knew nothing about waltzing! All the dancing he had done at Kathleen's wedding, and even at Gwen's, had been simple country dances, nothing posh or fancy like a waltz. Would there be waltzing? Maybe they wouldn't do something so…sophisticated…because it would be assumed that a majority of the servant's wouldn't know. _But what if there is? _

If there was the opportunity to waltz with Sybil Crawley…and he missed it because he didn't know the steps…

_Anna! Surely she knows how to waltz?_ But…what if she didn't? She came from a working class background like him. Still, he could always ask her, but…what would he do if she didn't know?

This was a time he wished Gwen was there; he would ask her to teach him, and she would know the reasons why he wanted to learn. She would tease him mercilessly, of course, but she would do it. But wishing for that wasn't going to help him now.

Daisy? No…no, Daisy was still in a dark mood, and she seemed to be only woman amongst all the staff who wasn't looking forward to the Servant's Ball.

Perhaps he needed to ask someone older, someone like Mrs. Hughes?

_Are you mad? She'll suspect what you're up to before you even finish the question!_

He was at an utter loss.

Unless…

"Branson?"

Tom turned his head then and his eyes widened and a smile began to spread across his face as he looked at the very person he had just been thinking about.

"I need to take one of the motors to Ripon, but I would like to drive myself," Lady Edith explained. "Which one is available?"

Tom couldn't stop smiling. "The Rolls-Royce is probably best, milady," he explained, fetching the keys. "But…before you go, I have a favor to ask of you."

Lady Edith lifted a delicate brow at his words. "A favor?" she asked, looking a little intrigued.

Tom nodded his head. "Since I taught you how to drive…I was wondering if you would teach me something…?"

* * *

><p>He was with Edith again.<p>

She was trying not to let her emotions show, but it was very difficult. She nearly exploded at Jenny who noticed her frowning as she was looking out an upstairs window, where the garage could be seen in the distance. The poor girl didn't deserve her anger, and Sybil immediately apologized for her clipped words when Jenny had asked if "everything was alright?" She lied and told Jenny she hadn't slept very well the previous night, and therefore she was feeling tired and slightly short-tempered with everyone. Jenny nodded her head in understanding, but didn't say anything further. She quickly scurried away to finish whatever duties she claimed she had, before Sybil could unleash her fury.

_If anyone should be feeling my anger its bloody Branson,_ she thought to herself, stabbing yet another ornament onto the newly constructed Christmas tree in the center of the great hall. There had been some debate as to whether a Christmas tree would be "too German", but both she and Edith insisted that it just wouldn't be Christmas without it, and then made excuses about how it was Prince Albert who had brought the tradition to Britain, and therefore it was as British as hanging boughs of holly, ivy, and mistletoe.

Yes…that may very well have been the last time she stood in support of something her sister insisted upon.

_Oh Lord, would you listen to yourself?_ She grimaced, hating how…petty and jealous she was sounding. Really, like some…some…petulant school girl. She was a grown woman for heaven's sake! And…and…and there was no doubt a perfectly reasonable explanation to why Tom was spending any spare time he had when he wasn't working…with Edith.

She just wished she knew what that explanation was.

And why wasn't Edith being questioned? Mary surely knew about Edith's disappearances to the garage nearly every day as well; why wasn't Mary accusing Edith of…of…having some sort of "inappropriate relationship" with the Downton chauffeur? Not that she wanted Edith to be having some sort of…

Sybil groaned, and nearly threw the present ornament she was holding across the room in her frustration. _I should barge in and demand to know what they are doing! Demand to know why he is avoiding me and spending all that time with my sister!_ And she did notice how Edith was avoiding her questions too! As if her sister was holding back some big secret! Oh God…had she waited too long? Was Tom now—

_How can you even THINK THAT?_ No, no, no, this was her own insecurities and frustrations getting the better of her, plain and simple. Tom had told her he would wait forever; Tom had proven his loyalty and faithfulness for her time and again. He was still there, after all, wasn't he? Even after all this time…he was still there and still waiting…_for her._ The rational part of her mind told her it was really nothing to worry about, that Tom had not suddenly "switched romantic allegiance" to her sister, that there really was a perfectly reasonable explanation for his and Edith's mysterious rendezvous'—she just didn't know what it was…yet.

However, she knew that her feelings of anxiety and worry were coming out of her continued worries about what to do when the new year finally began. Dr. Clarkson had told her family the other day (much to her father and grandmother's relief) that he expected Downton Abbey to close its doors as a convalescent home no later than the end of January.

Sometime between now and then…she really needed to make up her mind on what to do.

…Well, that wasn't quite right. She had made up her mind, she was determined to answer Tom and tell him "yes"…but…she simply hated the thought of parting from her parents as enemies. And she still clung to this hope that somehow, someway…they could part as friends, that things didn't have to be as Mary had once said, that such unions only existed and were only accepted in a land of childish make-believe. Basically…she wanted her cake and to eat it to. _But the world doesn't work like that_, a harsh voice in her head reminded her. _So many injustices happen to people every day, to women every day—women who yearn to follow their hearts, but who must accept the sacrifices that come with that, which oftentimes results in being shunned and turned away. Why should you be any different? You can either have your family's approval for always doing as you're told and following the rules that your position has handed to you…or you can break all those rules and marry this man you love, and live your dreams as a nurse, working day in and day out. You __can't__ have both._

Still…the thought of never seeing her family again…and worse, forever be remembered as "the fallen Crawley sister" who would only be referred to in harsh, hushed whispers, if referred to at all…quite literally, made her feel sick.

And she was feeling that way right now. And really, there was only one thing that could cure her of these horrible anxieties that was seeing Tom, hearing his voice, and God willing, feeling his arms around her. He was her strength, he gave her courage, and she knew that if she saw him and spoke to him, just for a few minutes, she would feel that strength and courage renewed once more, and know that yes, this was the right decision.

…But HOW could she do that if he was spending any of that free time with Edith?

"Milady?"

Sybil swallowed and turned, surprised to hear Anna's voice behind her. "Are you alright, milady?" Anna asked, stepping forward and looking concerned. "You seem a bit…pale…"

Oh must she look. The way she was hanging ornaments in an angry, frustrated manner was probably the first thing that had caught her friend's attention, but no doubt her current state…pale skin, her brow covered with a thin layer of perspiration, her eyes damp, feeling as if she could burst into wild, angry sobs any second—yes, no doubt she was quite the sight.

"I'm tired, that's all," she muttered, deciding to use the same lie she had muttered to Jenny a little earlier.

Anna's concern seemed to deepen. "Perhaps you should lie down? Get some rest for at least an hour?"

She shouldn't; she had work to do, important work, more than simply decorating a Christmas tree…and yet, she knew at the same time if she didn't retreat somewhere soon, she would become a blubbering mess right there in the front hall.

"Yes, yes…I…I think I will, thank you, Anna."

Anna offered a sweet, sympathetic smile, before reaching out and giving her arm an affectionate squeeze. "I'll make your excuses to Nurse Daniels if I see her," Anna promised. "But you best get some rest; after all, we don't you to fall ill and miss the Servant's Ball!"

The Servant's Ball. No, no, she would NOT miss that again. She would not miss her opportunity to finally dance with Tom after all this time, no matter how frustrated he was making her right now.

She murmured her thanks again to the head housemaid, and then hurried up the stairs to her room, locking the door and collapsing atop her bed upon arriving. The urge to cry had disappeared, slightly, but at the same time, her mind was racing a mile a minute, concentrating on the idea of the Servant's Ball for the millionth time since her father had announced they would have it again.

_Tom will have to dance with others besides myself; Mary knows—thanks to me, _she berated again,_ and will no doubt be watching us like a hawk. And if I spend the entire evening on his arm and dancing only with him, it will soon become very obvious to everyone else what my thoughts about the Downton chauffeur are. _

She cheeks grew extremely hot as some of those thoughts filled her head.

Lord, she hoped _those_ _thoughts_ weren't that transparent.

* * *

><p>His mother was irate. He wasn't surprised by this; in fact he had expected it.<p>

It was clear she was trying to sound "happy" at the prospect of him finally returning to Ireland, but her anger over the secrets he had been keeping from her, and his lack of specifics in when he would be returning, overruled any "joy" she had.

He couldn't blame her, really. If he had just received such a letter from one of his siblings, he'd feel the same way. Of course, his mother's anger over his secret-keeping now would be nothing compared to when he revealed the biggest secret about the woman he loved. Yes, one _tiny_ detail he had failed to mention…

This wasn't the first angry letter she had sent him. Nor was it the second. In fact, Tom had not heard from his mother for several long, and somewhat excruciating weeks, after sending her his announcement that not only would he be returning to Ireland soon (when exactly, he wasn't sure, but soon), but that he wouldn't be traveling alone. When the letter finally did come, it only contained a few short sentences, and his mother's emotions were quite plain to see:

_TOMMY, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? WHY THE SECRECY? WHY CAN'T YOU TELL ME WHEN YOU'LL BE COMING BACK? WHY MUST I NOT TELL ANYONE ELSE? WHY NOW ALL OF A SUDDEN? AND JUST WHO IS THIS GIRL? HAVE YOU DONE SOMETHING YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE? IS SHE…IS SHE _EXPECTING?_ LORD, TOMMY, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? _

He couldn't deny that his reply was somewhat clipped as well. After everything he had told her in his first letter that he hadn't done anything to bring shame to his mother or their family, that she would assume the worse…

Still, he knew he had no right to berate his mother for jumping to horrible conclusions; it was a shocking announcement, he did make it all sound very "cloak and dagger"-like, and to top it all off, he still hadn't been completely honest with her.

Three letters later, a week before Christmas, his mother was still angry with him. He groaned and debated about whether or not to crumple the piece of paper up and throw it in the stove; it wasn't the sort of letter he wanted to re-read, but at the same time, she had made the attempt to be civil, at least partially, in telling him about how the girls were doing in school, about how Frank was really applying himself in his position, and how everyone was preparing for their own Christmas festivities. Of course, his mother did find a way to try and inflict her guilt upon him, saying _how nice it would be if he were there…a shame they would have to wait another year, before he would be able to celebrate Christmas with them. A shame she couldn't share this news with the rest of the family—how much joy they would have upon learning that he was finally coming home, but no, she had to keep his secret_, and other such nonsense. He folded the letter up and stuffed it between some pages in his Bible—hopefully the Lord would offer him some patience and pass along some forgiveness to his mother.

He debated about sitting down and writing her back. It was probably for the best that he left it; if he tried to write to her now, no doubt his own words would be short and angry as well. Instead, he decided to sit and write back to Gwen—perhaps unleash some of his frustrations to her? She would sympathize, certainly.

"_If they cast you off, it won't be forever…"_ Hadn't those been the words he had said to her, as a means to ease her fears? Yet saying them right now, he could see how they not have been easy to listen to. Yes, he knew deep in his heart that his mother loved him, that she would never stop loving him, but at the same time he knew his mam could bear a long grudge, and she might not speak to him for a very long time for his deception. She may not even welcome the two of them into her house. _Well, I could see her taking in Sybil, but not me. I would be in the preverbal "dog house" for quite some time._ The question was…should he tell her before they arrived? He owed it to his family…and to Sybil. That would be a terrible surprise for Sybil to face; arriving in an unfamiliar land and being met with shock and suspicion. No, he couldn't do that to her, he would have to tell his mother before they left, and he should do it soon, allowing enough time for his mother to respond with an angry reply, just so he could be prepared for what awaited him when they arrived.

That was of course, _if_ Sybil answered "Yes". As hopeful as he was based on her kiss and her letter…he knew he would never be completely certain until he heard her say the words.

* * *

><p>"We could try it this way, perhaps?" Anna suggested, twisting Sybil's mass of curls into a fancy looking bun. She was seated in front of the mirror, and Anna was trying to help her find the right hairstyle, something that Sybil had never really given a great deal of thought to. In the past, before she became a nurse, she let Anna put her hair up in a few, basic styles, occasionally adding a fancy clip here or there, but she never stood before the mirror and dictated how her hair should look. She certainly had never sought out to do something like use a curling iron the way Mary did (of course, Sybil's hair curled quite naturally, much to her annoyance sometimes). And lately, she could manage her hair on her own (of course that was a very simple, basic bun, that didn't need to look fancy for the fact that was hidden beneath her headscarf). But tonight…tonight was a different story, altogether.<p>

Sybil made a face, not sure what she thought of the style. In many ways she wished she could wear her hair down, as she did when she was younger. _Oh Lord, what would Tom think of that?_ She bit her lip and quickly looked down, so Anna would not see her blush. _But "proper young ladies" do not do such things, _she reminded herself. Of course, so-called "proper young ladies" didn't spend what felt like hours agonizing over a hairstyle for the Servant's Ball.

As if to reiterate that very point, a knock sounded on her door, and before she could even reply, Edith was poking her head in. "Good heavens, Sybil, what is taking you so long?"

Sybil felt her face darken at her sister's words. "I…nothing, I just…I want to look my best," she mumbled. "It's the first ball I've attended in years."

"It's the _Servant's Ball_," Edith added with a shake of her head. Sybil's face darkened even more, partially out of embarrassment for Anna's sake. However, if Edith's words had bothered the head housemaid, she didn't show it.

Sybil turned her head to Anna and looked up at her a little bit sympathetically. "Um…yes, let's go with that style you just showed me," she murmured. Nothing was going to be completely satisfactory, and perhaps settling on a style would get Edith to leave. However, her sister had other plans, and instead of turning and going, walked further into the room and plopped herself down on Sybil's bed.

"Is this what you're going to wear?"

Sybil couldn't really turn her head as Anna began to work with her hair, so she strained her eyes to see her sister in the mirror. "Which one?"

Edith didn't even bother lifting the dresses, which weren't really dresses, but nice blouses and skirts—much like she wore during the day, when she wasn't working. "They're rather…_plain_, don't you think?"

Sybil did her best to suppress her groan. So now she was being accused of not being "fancy enough" for what her sister had sneered as nothing more than a mere "Servant's Ball"?

"I don't want to…" she glanced at Anna who was concentrating on her hair and not seeming to pay any notice to the conversation between her and her sister, but she had a feeling that Anna, like many housemaids, had long since learned the subtle art of listening while looking busy or preoccupied with another task. She wanted to say to Edith, _"I don't want to make anyone feel uncomfortable,"_ in other words, "under-dressed", by her and her family's extravagant appearance…not that they would be overly dressed themselves; Edith, while looking very nice in her simple green silk gown, was by no means covered head to toe in jewels or lace…but the gown did look far nicer than what she imagined Anna or Daisy or any of the other women on staff would be wearing. _I don't want to make people feel embarrassed, but at the same time I don't want to come across as patronizing, either!_ Truly, if she were honest with herself, the person whose thoughts and opinions and feelings mattered the most to her was Tom. She still remembered, very well, the simple suit he wore to Gwen's wedding. He looked very handsome, but his suit was not the sort of thing a man would wear to a wedding or ball or even a simple dinner party at Downton. And it had been on that day that she had realized that was probably the nicest piece of clothing he had, that he could wear to such occasions. And she remembered how much fussing she had done on that day, on what dress to wear, wondering if it was nice enough, even feeling a little jealous for giving Anna her better dress…and upon seeing Tom, and William, in their simple, nicely pressed suits…she felt very humbled.

"These will not do," Edith sighed. Without another word, she rose from Sybil's bed and proceeded to enter her closet.

"What are you doing?" Sybil asked, her brow furrowing as she tried to stretch her neck just slightly to see whatever Edith was up to.

"Finding you something proper!" Edith announced from within the closet.

"Hold still, milady," Anna murmured, taking some pins and trying to use them to keep Sybil's hair up.

Sybil tried not to roll her eyes; she tried not to shout at Edith, either. Oh really, why this invasion now? And Sybil wasn't quite sure what she thought about Edith; granted, she knew her…jealousy…was coming from a very silly place, and yet…well…Edith had been stealing Tom from her these past few weeks! If ever a moment arose where perhaps the two of them could have a conversation or a word, Tom was always doing something with Edith. Why in heaven's name? Since when had the two of them become so close? I should have insisted upon the driving lessons when he offered, she found herself silently grumbling. That would have been surefire way to cause suspicion with Mary, but at the same time, it would have meant some actual time, _alone_, with the man she loved.

"PERFECT!"

Anna groaned as Sybil turned her head to see what Edith was talking about. "Milady…"

"Sorry," she apologized, knowing she was testing Anna's patience. After all, Anna wanted to make herself ready for the ball as well, and Sybil was keeping her from doing so. She turned her head back so that Anna could finish, but she kept her eyes locked on the reflection of the closet…as Edith finally emerged with something black and gold.

"Ta da!" Edith grinned, holding the item proudly.

Sybil's eyes widened. "Edith!" Her mouth fell open, and she wasn't sure what to say. Was this a joke? "I…I…you can't be serious?"

Edith frowned and looked at the frock. "Why not? I remember you wanted to wear it the night that General Strutt had dinner with us, but Mama told you it was out of the question. Have you had the chance to wear it at all since you bought it?"

Sybil remembered the incident very well. Unlike her blue harem pants, which had been specially ordered and made for her, the black and gold frock which Edith was now holding was once upon a time an older dress of Sybil's, but which she took the dressmaker's in Ripon to be altered. Yes, she remembered her mother's look of horror when she realized what she had done to one of her dresses.

"I think you should wear it," Edith announced, smiling proudly. "What better occasion than the Servant's Ball? After all, aren't you the one going on and on about women 'stepping into a new frontier' now that the War is over?"

Had she? She never thought Edith had listened to her. She never thought anyone had listened to her…other than Tom.

"There," Anna announced, adding the last and final pin. She then turned and looked at the frock that Edith was still holding, and turned back to catch Sybil's gaze in the mirror and smiled. "I think Lady Edith's right; you should wear that tonight, milady."

Sybil rose and crossed the room to where her sister stood, her hands reaching out to the frock, admiring the bodice, the lace, the feel of the fabric. Yes, this was far fancier than either of the outfits she had originally been planning to wear—perhaps fancier even than what Edith was wearing. And yet…

A grin began to spread across her face. She may not be able to attend the ball with her hair flowing down, freely—but that didn't mean she couldn't cause Tom's jaw to drop in another way!

* * *

><p>He was nervous. He had been growing more and more nervous as the day went on. Like a child on Christmas Eve, he barely slept a wink. When morning came, and the staff was presented with their gifts from the family, Tom was there in the hall with other servants, and the entire time he kept glancing over at Sybil, who stood next to her sisters, in descending order. She was smiling at everyone, and her eyes did hold his for a moment, but he was quickly distracted by Lord Grantham, who shook his hand, wished him a happy Christmas, and handed him his gift—a new pair of leather gloves. They were handy, to be sure, but Tom knew they were meant to be used for his job. He thanked his Lordship out of politeness, and was ushered out with the other servants. He turned to look at Sybil again, but her attention was being drawn elsewhere as well. With a heavy sigh, he returned to the Servant's Hall with his new gloves, and tried his best to enjoy the festivities below stairs with his friends…even though all he could about was a particular woman above stairs.<p>

With every passing hour, as more and more kitchen maids giggled with excitement, Tom found himself growing more and more nervous. His palms were sweaty…his entire body seemed to be jumpy. He retreated to his cottage after the Servant's Christmas luncheon, and found himself going over and over the steps Lady Edith had taught him.

Tonight…tonight he would dance with her. Tonight he would have the chance to hold her again. Tonight…

And now, tonight was here.

He returned to the Servant's Hall, where Daisy was waiting for him. The kitchen maid had still not warmed-up to the idea of the ball. If she had her way, she wouldn't be attending at all. But Mrs. Patmore urged her and pestered her, saying how William wouldn't want her to spend Christmas moping in her room. Tom tried to be a little gentler, and asked if she would dance with him first at the ball. Daisy reluctantly agreed, but made it quite clear she would leave whenever she was good and ready.

"You look very nice Daisy," Tom said with a smile, hoping the compliment would lift her spirits, if only slightly. She did smile at him, but it was obvious she was far from merry.

"Thank you," she mumbled, before taking his offered arm and letting him lead the way upstairs.

Tom was wearing a simple, gray suit; his Christmas present from his mother last year, after his brown suit coat began to tear at the elbows. He was grateful for it, and had actually only worn it on two occasions prior to this one, so it still looked very new. Still, he knew it would be nothing compared to the his Lordship's suit, or Mr. Matthew's, but at least Tom wasn't in the minority tonight; he was amongst men of his own class, of his station; he wouldn't look shabby standing side by side with them.

Yet he still couldn't help but nervously fidget at the thought of seeing Sybil.

The ball hadn't really begun, not until the Dowager Countess and Mr. Carson led the first dance. But there were plenty of people already filling the hall, from his fellow staff colleagues, to the officers who were still residing at the Convalescent Home, to members of the hospital staff who had also been invited. Some of the nurses were still in their uniform, but he recognized a few who had changed clothes and had more or less dressed themselves to the nines for this night. He heard a few girlish giggles just to his left, and turned his head to see a few of those nurses grinning and waving at him.

Tom felt his cheeks flood with color, but he tried to be polite and nodded his head in their direction, which sent a few of the nurses in a giggling fit. _Does Sybil talk to them about me?_ He blushed even more at the thought. _Do they talk about me to Sybil?_ He couldn't deny; the idea did cause the corner of his mouth to lift. He wondered…did Sybil ever get jealous?

"Here come his Lordship and her Ladyship," Daisy murmured to him.

Tom turned his head towards the stairs, where the very people to whom Daisy had murmured descended, smiling and wishing everyone a most happy Christmas, just as they had done this morning with all of the servants. Tom noticed that behind followed Lady Mary and Lady Edith…but where was Sybil?

Suddenly his stomach dropped at the thought. _Oh no…no, no, please don't let her be ill again?_ He remembered back to his first Christmas at Downton, how she had taken ill and was unable to attend the Servant's Ball. _What if she was called away to the hospital?_ Sybil was the sort to step in and help if the need arose; what if that was the case? Lord and Lady Grantham having now reached the floor, were going around and greeting all of the officers and hospital staff, welcoming them along with the servants once more for attending. Sir Richard Carlisle was there, and quickly approached Lady Mary, greeting her with a kiss on her hand, before escorting her away from following her parents…and talking to Mr. Matthew.

Tom noticed that Miss Swire wasn't there; was she spending Christmas with her father in London? Mr. Matthew smiled at Lady Mary, and then gave a stiff nod to Sir Richard, but nothing more was said beyond the usual pleasantries.

Tom was growing impatient. He kept glancing at the stairs, waiting to see if Sybil was descending down to join them. _Like an angel, coming to earth to mix with mortals._ Tom rolled his eyes; no, just because he was Irish did not mean he was poetic.

"I haven't seen Anna, have you?"

Tom turned his gaze to Daisy and began looking around the room. She was right; where was Anna? Bates was standing off to the side, near Mrs. Hughes. Tom was surprised Anna was there. Perhaps she was still helping Sybil dress? That could be the only explanation_. Oh Lord, please let it be the only explanation…_

The Dowager Countess appeared, and as usual, commanded everyone's attention with her presence. Tom watched as Mr. Carson took her hand and led her out onto the floor. The small quartet who had been hired to play for the night began filling the room with music at one simple gesture from her Ladyship. Everyone smiled and clapped as Old Lady Grantham and the Downton butler opened the first set with a simple dance, not exactly a waltz, but similar in style. Other couples began moving onto the floor, and Tom turned to Daisy, offering her a kind smile. "You promised me the first dance, remember?"

Despite her sour mood from earlier, Daisy returned his smile and nodded her head, before joining the others that were dancing beside the Dowager Countess and Mr. Carson. People were laughing and clapping as the dancing continued; Tom nodded his head to Mrs. Patmore, who looked so thankful that he had managed to convince Daisy to be there. They continued dancing along with everyone else…but something beckoned Tom to turn his head and look up…towards the staircase. Without a second's hesitation he did just that…and practically froze where he stood.

Daisy looked confused, and turned her head to see what had his attention, and let out a great gasp that caught the attentions of several other people who also turned their heads and gasped as well…including Lord and Lady Grantham!

Her parents looked…horrified would be too strong of a word, but they certainly looked…surprised. So did some of the officers, the other nurses, and the rest of the staff who lifted their eyes and took in the sight of her. Some were smiling, a few giggling, while others leaned over and whispered something to a nearby partner. But Tom never let his eyes fall away from hers…as he watched her finally descend the staircase…in another delightful "trouser" gown.

* * *

><p>She wasn't trying to cause a scene, honestly. However, she supposed it was a bit of a shock, seeing a woman wear trousers to a ball. Not that they were anything like her blue harem pants. That frock had been a great deal more obvious…as well as revealing. If she remained stationary, she supposed her black and gold trousers would look like an odd skirt, pooled at the bottom, just above her ankles. Yet it was quite obvious that it wasn't a skirt as she descended the stairs…and fully entered the hall.<p>

She could only imagine what her grandmother was thinking. No doubt she was prepared to tell Carson to fetch her some smelling salts. She didn't look into her parents' eyes or Mary's for that matter. She did catch Edith's gaze, who seemed to be grinning with approval. She also caught Mrs. Hughes' gaze, whose look of surprise had quickly melted into one of amusement. But there was really only one face Sybil cared about…and she met and held his gaze as she came into the room.

_You wanted to surprise him and cause his jaw to drop…I'd say you succeeded!_

Tom was staring at her, and a huge grin was spreading across his face. And…there was something else twinkling in his eyes. Admiration, perhaps? She hoped so. Maybe…maybe something else? Her heart began to beat rapidly at the thought.

Still, she couldn't keep her eyes on him the entire evening, not unless she wanted to arouse suspicion, and she was already taking a great deal of attention in her so-called "gown". So, just as she had done all those years ago, when she entered the drawing room in her harem pants, she turned and smiled to the room and murmured in a pleasant voice, "Good evening everyone!"

Her mother was the first to approach her. "Sybil, darling," she murmured under her breath. Her father was nodding at the musicians to carry on playing, as they had momentarily paused due to everyone's attention being focused on the youngest Crawley daughter. "Do you think…that's appropriate?"

Sybil frowned. "Appropriate?"

Her mother nodded. "I mean…it's one thing for you to wear such a…a gown…to a family dinner, but this is a party, a ball in honor of all those who have served Downton, as well as their country. So perhaps…something a little more…_conservative_, would be best?"

Sybil looked over her mother's shoulder to some of the other faces that were still staring at her. Her grandmother, and Carson, were both frowning and showing deep signs of disapproval. Her father was frowning as well, yet in truth he looked more embarrassed than disapproving. Mary, she could tell, was muttering something to Sir Richard, who kept gazing at her legs—_no doubt making excuses for me, _she mused. The only family that seemed to show any support were Edith, and her cousins, both of whom were smiling at her and even chuckling to themselves.

And of course, Tom…

Tom's face held anything but disapproval…or embarrassment. In fact, the gaze in which he was giving her could only be described as one of great pride...and approval.

Not that she needed his approval. No, she didn't need anyone's approval…other than her own. And perhaps that was where his look of pride was coming from? Pride in her that she knew this about herself…

Sybil lifted her chin and put on a smile of her own, refusing to let others dictate to her how she should feel about herself right now. She had no shame in her frock; it really wasn't that shocking, in her opinion. And while the point of the evening was thanking everyone who served the house, as well as the nation…Sybil felt she could be counted amongst that group. She had served her country by becoming a nurse…and God willing, she would continue to serve in that role long after the last of the hospital supplies had been removed from Downton.

"Excuse me, Mama," she said as she began to move past her mother. "I see Sgt. Barrow is without a dance partner; I must rectify that at once."

She could feel her mother's shocked gaze on her back as she crossed the hall floor to where Thomas stood, looking a little surprised by her approach, but did not refuse when she asked him to dance. Indeed, she felt many eyes still on her, but she didn't care. There was only one pair of eyes that mattered, and she couldn't wait until the moment finally arrived when _they_ could dance with one another.

After dancing with Thomas, Sybil danced with Dr. Clarkson, then with one of the hall boys, then Carson. Carson's look of disapproval finally seemed to have disappeared, and in fact he even told her at one point, "Well, milady, I must say you do look lovely this evening…" She smiled at his compliment and thanked him, knowing that the poor old butler did struggle in understanding her progressive leanings. But Carson did seem willing to try, at least for her sake. While Mary would always be his favorite, she did feel that in her own way, she had a special place in Carson's heart.

She danced with Bates next, who thanked her for her consideration, as she purposefully chose a dance that didn't have a great deal of quick moves or any sort of foot hopping. Anna had finally emerged while she had been dancing with Thomas, and when she herself wasn't dancing, had spent a majority of her time with Bates, holding his hand and encouraging him to at least stand on occasion and sway with her to the music. _Rather like that one time out in the garage, after Gwen's wedding…_

Sybil blushed at the memory. Had Tom been thinking about it too? She glanced over at him once again, nibbling her bottom lip and wondering when the appropriate time would be for the two of them to dance? He had danced with Edith, her mother, Anna, and yes, even her grandmother. She had noticed that he hadn't danced with Mary, but it seemed that Carson was the only servant who had managed to steal Mary away from Sir Richard. Indeed, he was monopolizing Mary and keeping her close, or rather…keeping Mary from crossing the room to where Matthew sat in his wheelchair.

Sybil's heart went out to her cousin. It was obvious he was trying to put on a brave and happy face for the occasion, but no doubt this was very difficult for all the officers present who had lost a leg or the ability to walk…and therefore could not dance with the others. As much as Sybil wanted to spend the evening wrapped in Tom's arms, and spinning around the room with him, she felt she should go to her cousin.

However, no sooner had the dance ended with Bates, she felt a gentle tug on her elbow. She glanced at the officer, a Capt. Kelley, who wore an eye-patch and who many of the nurses thought to be quite handsome. "Nurse Crawley, I insist that the next dance be with me," he said with a grin, before bowing and offering her his hand.

"Oh…" Sybil glanced over Capt. Kelley's shoulder to her cousin, and was pleased to see that Mary had somehow managed to sneak away from Sir Richard, or at the very least refused to let him keep her from Matthew's side, and was now sitting next to him. She will make him smile far more than I ever could, she thought to herself.

"Nurse Crawley?"

She looked back up at Capt. Kelley, who was patiently waiting for her to take his hand as the quartet began playing again, and immediately she recognized the cords of the waltz. Her eyes flew away to another part of the room, the last spot where she had seen Tom, but he wasn't there. She frowned at this, and then looked up at Capt. Kelley once more, before forcing a small smile and finally accepting his offer and letting him lead her back to the dance floor.

_Perhaps it's just as well?_ She noticed that many of the servants, with the exception of Carson and Mrs. Hughes, were not dancing right now_. I suppose it's possible that Tom wouldn't know—_

However, those thoughts immediately came to a stop…when she suddenly saw Tom…and Edith? Yes! Tom and Edith were dancing but a few feet away from her—no, not simply dancing, WALTZING! Tom knew…Tom knew how to waltz?

That stab of jealousy she had been trying so hard to suppress suddenly came back, and poor Capt. Kelley felt the brunt of it, after she accidently stepped on his foot. "OH! Oh, I do beg your pardon Capt. Kelley, I—"

"It's alright," he reassured, putting on a smile, despite the obvious pain she could see on his face. "It's my fault, of course."

She felt so embarrassed, and tried to regain her composure, but her eyes kept wandering to the dancing figures of the man she loved…and her sister!

Good heavens! Was…was it possible? Edith's sudden long hours in the garage; her sudden disappearances with Tom. Oh God…had…had it actually happened?

_Did I wait too long? Has he gotten tired of my "empty" promises about "just a little longer," or "just until the war is over"? Have I somehow sent him into the arms of my own sister? He said he would wait forever…but…but truly, how long would a man wait for someone like that? How much patience can a man have? And Lord knows I've tried his patience, so many times—_

"May I cut in?"

Sybil's brow furrowed as she turned around to see…Edith?

Edith was smiling and standing just behind her, looking a little sheepish with her grin, but also a little mischievous as well. What on earth…?

WAIT! If her sister was now standing behind her, asking to take Capt. Kelley…then…then where was…?

"Of course," Sybil answered, her voice almost sounding like a squeak, but she cleared her throat, gave Capt. Kelley a smile, and then quickly stepped out the way to let Edith take over. The poor captain looked very confused, but nonetheless, he didn't frown, nor did he refuse to dance with her sister. And just as the two of them began twirling away…Sybil stood and stared straight ahead…in the smiling blue-green eyes of the very man she had been longing to dance with all evening.

* * *

><p>He was counting in his head, trying his best to keep his steps in time to the music, as well as trying not to step on her feet. Lady Edith had told him he was getting better and better with each new lesson, but of course now he was holding Sybil…SYBIL…in his arms, and dancing with her, and she did have a talent for…distracting him from what he was doing.<p>

However, he had somehow managed not to step on her feet. And she was grinning and clinging to him happily while he spun her around the room to the waltz. _Best decision I ever made_, he found himself thinking. Yes, he would forever be in Lady Edith's debt for teaching him how to waltz.

After Lady Edith took the one-eyed officer away from Sybil (Tom couldn't deny he felt a stab of jealousy at seeing the handsome soldier ask for Sybil to dance with him) he boldly stepped forward, after a little bow of his head, and held his hand out to her. "Will you dance with me, milady?"

Sybil blushed…a most beautiful shade of pink, but did not hesitate. She took his hand and more or less _pulled him_ to her side! Tom couldn't help but chuckle at her eagerness (he was feeling that way too) and with a deep breath…let his hand rise up and rest at her waist…before slowly moving to her back…and pulling her just a little bit closer, their bodies almost touching.

Was it his imagination? Or…was Sybil holding her breath as well? He grinned down at her as he felt her hand grip his, their fingers lacing, and her other hand rest on his shoulder. She was in his arms again…God, just like he had dreamed every night since their kiss. He was holding her in his arms…and now, they were dancing.

They twirled around the room, laughing and grinning, the rest of the world falling away as they danced. Even though he had addressed her as "milady" she wasn't Lady Sybil Crawley, daughter of the Earl of Grantham…but simply, Sybil. _His_, Sybil. His beautiful, caring, passionate suffragette. And they were so close now…so close to making their dreams come true.

Memories began to flood his mind. Memories of friendship and attraction and innocent flirting; the realization that he was in love with her, the longing to be with her, the pain of confessing his feelings and believing that she didn't return them, that he had been wrong. The struggle to return to how things had once been, to simply be satisfied to be her friend…and then realizing he could never be satisfied with that. The pain and the anger of a broken heart, then the enlightenment of patience…biding his time…letting her come to him, letting her come to an understanding of what she felt…and the wonderful, and almost unbelievable realization that yes…such a union was possible, so long as they both had the courage to pursue it. And now here they were…dancing together, looking into one another's eyes, and while actual words had not been spoken, Tom knew…Tom could see…that she loved him.

What a journey the two of them had made…

The music came to an end; everyone was applauding the quartet, and Tom reluctantly let his hands fall away from Sybil.

He didn't dare glance in Lady Mary's direction. If truth be told, he had avoided her gaze all evening. He desperately wanted to dance with Sybil again, but he knew it was probably for the best to step away.

Sybil seemed to understand, because she gave him a little curtsey, something that simply wasn't done by women like her to men like him, but she did so with a smile and murmured, "Thank you for the waltz…Tom."

He smiled, loving that little note of rebellion, just like her choice of gown. He watched then as she turned away, this time to going to where Mr. Matthew was sitting (Sir Richard had pulled Lady Mary away to dance with him). Tom decided to ask Mrs. Crawley for a dance, as she had been spending a majority of the evening keeping her son company.

"Where did you learn to waltz, Branson?" Mrs. Crawley asked.

"I had some lessons," was all he said.

"Well, it was indeed a treat to see both you and Sybil dancing," she replied. Tom looked at her, wondering if there was a particular meaning behind her words, but she simply smiled and continued to make polite conversation, asking after his family and so forth.

Sybil spent the next two dances with Mr. Matthew, sitting by his side and talking and laughing, helping the future earl smile and perhaps momentarily forget his troubles. He didn't feel jealous, although he did recall how once, for the briefest of moments, he hated Matthew Crawley, believing that Sybil was in love with him, that she saw him as her gallant hero after the events of the Count in Ripon. That day seemed so long ago…but there were also times when it felt like yesterday. He despised Matthew Crawley then, but that feeling hadn't even lasted the night. He knew better now; it was quite obvious to Tom that if Matthew Crawley were in love or infatuated with any Crawley girl, it wasn't Sybil. And he knew better as well that Sybil's love for her cousin was similar to his love for Gwen; in Matthew, Sybil found the brother she never had, just as Gwen was another sister to him. Indeed, Sybil had a gift when it came to working and treating people; she could see into their hearts and looked for ways to help them. She was an outstanding nurse, clearly; and she would continue to be a wonderful one long after Downton.

As Sybil sat with Mr. Matthew, Tom danced with Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes. He thought about asking Lady Mary to dance, even though he was reluctant to do so…but he noticed that both she and Sir Richard had slipped out of the room…and from what he could tell as he saw them in the distance, was that they were in the midst of a rather…_emotional_ disagreement.

"Let the next dance be something jolly!" his Lordship declared, after the music had ended. "Something fast, that will leave the ladies heads spinning long after it's through!"

Everyone laughed and clapped and the quartet immediately began to play that very song. Tom looked across the room and caught Sybil's eye. She grinned…and without a word, rose from where she sat and quickly crossed the floor to where he stood. "Will you _now_ finally teach me that Irish jig you bragged about so long ago?"

Tom couldn't help but laugh. "This is hardly a jig…but I'll do my best," he grinned, and without warning, his hands moved to her waist, causing her to gasp as he pulled her close…and with a bit a mischievous grin, began to spin her just as he noticed his Lordship spin his own wife. Other couples were crowding the floor; everyone was grabbing a partner, everyone was joining in. Tom continued to spin Sybil, who was squealing and clinging to his shoulders as he spun her. They were getting dizzy, but they didn't care. Everyone kept moving in, everyone was dancing and spinning and clapping with merriment.

"I'm going to fall!" Sybil gasped, while giggling at the same time.

"Never," he vowed, his hold on her only tightening. "But if you do, I'll always catch you."

She looked at him and despite the gaiety and excitement that was filling the room as everyone danced, her eyes held nothing but the sweetest tenderness…and Tom realized then that if he didn't want to cause an even bigger scene than Sybil's beautiful and dramatic entrance…then he needed to move them both to someplace secluded…right away.

And so while everyone was distracted by the music, Tom spun Sybil away from the floor…away into a darkened side room…where no one else was gathered…and where they could be together, unseen.

"Tom!" Sybil gasped, realizing now, after recovering from their dance where they were. She opened her mouth to say something else, but he stopped her…by placing his own mouth over hers.

Sybil's gasp never escaped her throat. Instead, she moaned against his lips, causing him to moan as well. His hands pulled her closer, moving around her back, crushing her against his body. Her own fingers clung to him, just as they had done while dancing, only her clutch was much tighter now. She whimpered then, the tiny noise causing her mouth to open just slightly, and Tom immediately deepened the kiss, his tongue moving to touch hers, to taste hers. She gasped and welcomed his tongue, her own meeting his in a lover's kiss, before exploring the secrets of his own mouth. They both groaned and gasped and whimpered each other's names between kisses, and only managed to pull away when the music suddenly came to a stop…and the room erupted with applause.

Her beautiful lips were swollen from the intensity of their kiss. Her pupils had dilated, and the color of her eyes reminded him a stormy sky. Her chest was rising and following in short, shallow breaths, as if she were panting after a long run. She was still crushed against him…in fact, he only realized now that he had her trapped, in a manner of speaking, between the doorframe of the room they were somewhat hiding in, and his own body. But she didn't seem to mind.

"Tom…" she managed to finally moan as soon as her voice allowed her. "I…I thought…" she was blushing and Tom wanted to rain his lips all over her cheeks and face, kissing everywhere her blush touched. How far had it spread? He groaned and felt his body eagerly respond at the thought. "You…you said you weren't going to kiss me…" she finally managed to say.

His brow furrowed at this. Why on earth would he have said that?

"You said you weren't going to kiss me…until you had heard my answer?" she explained, her blush only growing darker and darker.

Somehow, the memory managed to resurface through his kiss-hazed mind. Yes, he remembered that day, the one in the garage where she had finally come to him after weeks of not speaking. That had been the day she had asked him to wait and where he promised to wait forever. He remembered now…and he remembered how he had teased her, asking if she had enjoyed their kiss, delighted to hear that yes, she very much had…and that she very much wanted him to kiss her again…but he had said he wouldn't…at least not until she had given him her answer.

He had broken his own promise to himself. But as far as promises went, this was one he was glad to have broken. "It's Christmas…" was the only explanation he could offer.

Sybil gazed up at him and a grin began to spread across her face. "Christmas? That's your excuse?"

Tom nodded, chuckling to himself. "And…isn't that mistletoe?"

She looked up and saw the tiny green plant hanging over the doorway. Had that been her sister's doing? One of the housemaids? When she had helped with decorating Downton for the holiday, she didn't recall hanging mistletoe. Still…she was grateful to whoever had hung the little plant.

"I'm furious with you, you know," she announced, lifting her chin and trying to look haughty.

All it did was make Tom want to kiss her even more. "Furious?" he asked, lowering his lips…and kissing the pulse point at her neck. He grinned against her skin as he felt her melt against him.

"Y-y-yes…" she stammered, her grip on his shoulders never quite loosening. "You…you made me believe…the most…the most…ooohhhhhh…" she moaned as his lips moved up and nibbled at her earlobe. "Tom…" she whimpered, even more so when he chuckled against her skin.

"What did I make you believe?" he asked, his lips now moving down her neck once more…coming around to her throat, which was beautifully turned up and arched, giving him access to even more delicious, creamy skin…including her now exposed collarbone.

"That…that…OH!" she gasped as she felt his lips…and tongue…kiss and lick the skin just above her bodice. The dress wasn't as low cut as some others she had; her cleavage wasn't even exposed. But his kisses did cause her breath to come in faster and quicker, and it did cause her chest to rise and fall rather rapidly…his face, his lips, everything, so much closer to her body than ever before.

He was overstepping so many lines, he knew that. And yet…he loved hearing her moan in pleasure. He loved seeing her like this, as a husband would see his wife…as he hoped one day, very soon, to see and be with her…and not have to worry about some snooping footman spying on them. "Tell me, love…" he growled against her skin, his lips now moving back up, to her shoulder…kissing her where her neck and shoulder met. "Tell me, before you forget," he teased.

He chuckled as he felt her attempt to swat his arm. "That you and Edith—"

Tom suddenly lifted his head and stared at her with a look of bewilderment. "Me and…and Lady Edith?"

Sybil nodded her head, giggling no doubt at the crazed look he was giving her. "It's not so strange, Tom; I mean, what was I to expect? If you had a free moment in your day, she was always visiting the garage! And I know that the two of you became friends when you taught her to drive…and Edith is very pretty—"

"She is," he said with a nod of his head, his hands now rising to cup her face. "But you are the most beautiful…both inside and out."

Sybil blushed at this and nibbled her bottom lip. Tom wanted nothing more than to sweep in and capture that lip between his own teeth.

"So…all this time…Edith was…?"

"Teaching me how to waltz," Tom explained, looking a little sheepish, but grinning all the same.

Sybil giggled, her hands now looped around his neck. "Well, Mr. Branson, you do waltz divinely, I must say."

"Thank you; I'll be sure to pass your approval onto my dance instructor."

Sybil laughed again and then leaned forward, much to Tom's surprise and delight…and tipped her lips up towards his. He didn't hesitate to bend his head and kiss her again, however no sooner had the kiss begun, both he and Sybil were forced to stop by the sound of Edith's voice.

"Sybil?"

"Go!" Tom hissed. "I'll stay behind and wait…tell her you were looking for Lady Mary; she had disappeared some time ago with Sir Richard."

Sybil nodded her head in thanks…and then quickly leaned in and kissed him, once more on his lips, before moving into the corridor to where her sister was calling. Tom listened, his mouth still tingling from her kiss, as Sybil called out to Edith, asking if she had seen Mary, explaining that she had gone in search of her. He waited until their voices were distant…before slowly emerging from the room, and carefully returning to the Hall.

His first Servant's Ball at Downton Abbey—and with any luck, also his last. Yes, he prayed that by this time the following year, both he and Sybil would be celebrating Christmas together with his family…as husband and wife. But despite the years of waiting and wondering…he was glad for this night. Glad for the opportunity to hold Sybil Crawley in his arms and dance with her. And especially to kiss her…although God willing, while this may be his last Christmas at Downton, he hoped and prayed that tonight was the first of many spent holding and kissing his beautiful, passionate Sybil. With or without mistletoe.

**~End of Volume II~**


	126. 1919: A Letter to Susan

_New year (1919), new episode (2x07), new stage in the S/T relationship-SO NEW VOLUME! Now things are *really* going to start heating up as Sybil gets closer and closer to giving Tom her answer, and the two of them attempt to elope...and everything that will happen afterwards. So here's the first of that new section in this new volume; and I loved writing this chapter and hope you enjoy it too! I have to say, in writing this story, I really feel I have come to understand the workings of Tom and Sybil's mind in *why* it took so long for them to be together; I hope it's helped you too! Anyway, thanks always for reading and reviewing! ON WITH THE CHAPTER!_

* * *

><p><strong>Volume III, Part I<strong>

_Winter 1919_

**Chapter One-Hundred and Twenty-Six**

Dear Susan,

First, let me apologize for not answering sooner than this. I did receive your letter before Christmas, and it was such a joy to read…and I want to say hearty CONGRATULATIONS to the wonderful news that you and James will be celebrating this next Christmas…with a very special and very sweet bundle from the stork. Oh Susan…how wonderful to hear! I am so happy for you, truly! So with that, I would like to say…HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Yes…1919. The first year in so long, where…where there isn't a war going on. It's rather hard to believe…

…

Anyway, I do apologize for not answering right away. These past few weeks have been rather hectic in…well, in the closing of the convalescent home. Just yesterday a truck was here to take the last of the medical supplies and hospital beds. Now, a fortnight into the new year, Downton is a house, once again. Just…a plain, regular house.

…Alright, perhaps not just some "plain, ordinary house" like the sort that…well, that _normal people_ live in, but…it's strange, Susan, I find that…that I miss the chaos of it all. I know my parents are happy to have everything back to normal…at least, I think they do. Mama seems glad to have the house back, as does Papa, but Mama is still wanting to stay "involved" in a manner of speaking, meaning she's decided to help my cousin Isobel with some of her refugee work. I suppose in some ways this isn't too surprising; I mean, Mama really seemed to take to Mrs. Bird's soup kitchen the same way I took to nursing, so to speak, so I'm not surprised she's looking for things to do. I know Edith misses it; she oversaw the last of the supplies leave yesterday, and she told me later how melancholy it made her. Indeed, I think the War has changed us all in more ways than one!

Capt. Kelley was the last officer to leave, and that was three days ago. And even before he left, there were just a handful of men; so few that we could have had them sit with us in the dining room for dinner! I confess I miss waking up and not seeing this place crowded! I miss not hearing the men talk about cricket or football in between their games of chess or cards; I miss not talking to them as I would go about on my rounds, helping those who have lost an arm or a hand in writing a letter to their family, or fetching a book of blanket for them. I even miss something as mundane as…well, as going around with a water pitcher or tea pot.

…And it's going to get worse.

I begged Dr. Clarkson, Susan, literally BEGGED that he keep me for one more week at the hospital. All the other volunteer nurses have returned to their homes and "normal lives", but…I'm not ready. He couldn't take me for a full week, but he did take pity on me and gave me three days. Tomorrow is my last day. My last shift as nurse…

Will you stay on? Of course as the time for the baby draws closer, I understand that you'll have to…well, that you'll have to take some time away, but…have you made up your mind about staying? I remember that you told me that your hospital in Liverpool is always looking for help, and…I mean, even if you weren't being paid and it was strictly as a volunteer, do you think you would do it? I've asked myself that very same question, and…and I think that I would. Meaning, I loved working as nurse so much that even if I couldn't be paid—

Of course that's a foolish way to think. Because I can't think like that anymore, for…well, for obvious reasons.

…

…

I'm going to do it, Susan. Branson—Tom; I'm going to say "yes". I think I always knew that I would, but…but I have become more and more certain with each passing day, that my future lies with him and beside him, even if that means living all the way in Dublin or…well, anywhere! So long as we're together, that's all that matters, and I will follow him to Timbuktu if need be; surely they need nurses there?

But in all seriousness…yes. I'm going to say "yes"…I just…I need to find the right time.

Now I don't mean I need to find the right time to say "yes!" because the truth is I am ready to put down this pen before I even finish my letter, and throw myself into his arms and say a loud "YES!" right now! But…but I need to find the right time to…to say goodbye here. Because I'm afraid…oh Susan, forgive me, I've been trying so hard to keep my emotions from overflowing but…

…

…

…

…I'm afraid that…that I will be made a stranger to my family for making this decision. And that's putting it kindly.

But I am determined. I love Tom, I love him so much…and…and I don't care about all the "creature comforts" that such an elegant lifestyle brings. I never really cared for any of that, or at least, I came to realize that those things aren't important; not after the horror that this War has shown. Love, and people are important. And…and that's why this is so hard, because I'm not thinking about money or situation or anything like that, but…but about my family. My parents, my sisters, even my grandmother; I fear I will lose all of them for…for being true to myself, and to my heart. And that's I why I hate and dread having to make this decision, because I know I'm being forced to choose one or the other.

But I don't blame Tom. Not at all. Tom has told me he would welcome my family with open arms, and I believe him, I do. Even if they never come around to his "socialist principles", I know Tom will accept them, on my behalf at least, if for no other reason. But…but I worry and fear that they will not be so understanding. And I blame Society; I blame it for its so-called "RULES" of conduct and behavior, the very rules that tell women they have no voice in the leadership of this country, other than to be a voice of support to their husbands or fathers. These rules dictate everything, how people of my class are supposed to feel and act, as long as everyone "stays in their place". I hate it; I hate those stupid rules, and I hate this narrow way of thinking! And I especially hate how that…that way of thinking has my family COMPLETELY in its grip, and therefore they can't see past their noses that…that marrying Tom and working and living a far simpler life is what _will_ make me HAPPY!

I…I'm not so ignorant to say that it will be difficult at first, meaning the change for me from going to a life like Downton to a life in Dublin, but…but I do think I can do it. It was frightening at first, yet, but…I loved my independence when we were in school in York! I loved that simplicity, and even the harsh equality that I faced with the other nurses and students, but…that's what I want, Susan. THAT'S THE LIFE I WANT! With Tom.

…

I'm trying to have faith; that's what's so amazing about Tom, Susan, his…his undying faith in people, even when they disappoint him, he still tries to have faith in others. He believes—and I don't think he's just saying this for my benefit—but he believes that my family will come around, that they will accept my choices, including him. I…I wish I had that faith! I truly do, because I love my family and I do know that they are good people (even Granny) but…but God forgive me, Susan, I have such doubts. I fear that those stupid rules of propriety will win out over all the reasons I offer and provide for why I want to live my life the way I wish, with Tom Branson as my husband.

I fear that I will become that "forbidden topic" of conversation; the story that will be shared in London tea rooms; _"listen to your parents, so you don't become like Lady Sybil Crawley!"_

…

It makes me sick, Susan.

…

And I know this is the reason why I've delayed it for so long.

…

…

In fact…I'm even wondering if I should say anything to them…before…

Susan, remember how you told me about running away with James to Gretna Green? How…how you both were just so frustrated with all the planning and dictating on how your wedding should be that you both just took a chance…and got married without all the pomp and circumstance? I confess, I never thought about the idea of elopement before, but…but now, I am truly seeing the benefits to it.

I fear that if I go to them and tell them the truth, that I love Tom and want to be his wife and move all the way to Ireland, they'll forbid it! Alright, I know they'll forbid it, but what I mean is that they'll try and do _something_ to drive us apart. In fact, I wouldn't put it past Papa to…to somehow have Tom arrested and deported back to Ireland, and making it impossible for him to ever come back. This would mean I could never come back, because I will go, I will not let them keep us apart! But if it does come to that…then I must…then I _must_ say goodbye forever…and truly become that stranger to my family, and them to me.

…

…

Susan…will you send me details? I mean, when you and James ran away to Gretna Green, where did you go, specifically? Where did you stay? How long were you there? And…and how did you tell your families later?

Papa will be furious, of course…but it would be an even greater scandal if he forces Tom and I to divorce (I would never let him, of course; he would have to forge my signature!) But that's the only consolation; if we marry, there is nothing they can do…other than shun me for the rest of my life. But…but at least Tom and I would be together.

…And that's all that matters.

…

But God help me, Susan, I…I don't want to be estranged from them, not forever.

…

…

I promise to write to you again, before I…before we go. I…I know this rather forward of me to ask, but, since we'll be stopping in Liverpool to get the boat to take us to Ireland, I hope I can come and see you?

Oh Lord, listen to me; I'm making plans and I haven't even told Tom that "yes", I will marry him! I suppose I should do that first, before packing my things.

Susan…thank you for being such a dear friend; in York…throughout this entire war, and…and _especially_ for now. Thank you; I honestly don't know how I would manage to keep my sanity if I didn't have both you and Gwen to write to!

But yes, I will write to you again, very soon…and please, I know it's pushy and selfish of me to ask, but please…write to me as soon as you are able? With those answers to my questions about Gretna Green? Thank you Susan, again, a thousand times, thank you.

Again, congratulations on your wonderful news! Please give my love to James and pass my congratulations to him! Blessings to you both!

—Sybil


	127. Branson's Journal XV

_WHOO! I'm feelin' the Sybil/Tom fire and it's helping me write these chapters! LOVE IT! Anyway, still riding a bit of the "angst wave" as we build up to the *that* scene. Not only did I want to explore Tom's feelings leading up to that moment, but I really wanted someone else, besides Carson, to have noticed another certain "improper" relationship possibly happening between an upstairs aristocrat, and a member of the staff. Anyway, hope I did a decent job in writing Tom's character here...I just felt for the poor guy; he's been so patient in waiting for her, but you know he's feeling anxious! Anyway, hope you enjoy and please share your thoughts! THANKS!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Twenty-Seven<strong>

January 16, 1919

Sixty-seven days.

That's how long it's been since November 11th; since the end of the War. Sixty-seven days.

…And we're still here. Or I'm still here.

I'm trying to be patient, I really am. I told her I would wait forever and I meant it. But I keep remembering how only a few months ago, she told me that she would give me her answer to after the War had ended. And it's been sixty-seven days, and…I'm still waiting for an answer.

God, I…I feel like a right git for writing these things, for thinking them! I just…I can't help but confess how…how nervous I am, how worried I am that…that it will never happen. I mean, I know, I know, I keep looking at her letter to give me hope, because of course she can't step away from her duties, I understand that, I respect that, I love that about her! She has the biggest heart of anyone I know, and…and I would never ask her to…to…

…

God, _I am_ a git. I'm a nervous, anxious git who tries to hide his self-consciousness under an arrogant guise of over-confidence. Here I am, it's the middle of the day, and yet I can barely concentrate; I've been trying to do some engine work on the Renault for the past two hours, something that's so simple it should only take me thirty-minutes at most, and yet…I can't concentrate! I thought writing in this would help relieve some of that stress, if I just put my thoughts down on paper, but…

…

It's just…we're so close, I can feel it—I know it! But…but I'm constantly on edge, I keep jumping at every sound, wondering if it's her, finally coming to tell me her decision, that she's ready to leave RIGHT NOW, and if she did come and say that, God help me, I know I would drop whatever I was doing and take his Lordship's car and not bother stopping until we reached the docks in Liverpool.

But not yet. That's what I keep telling myself, not _yet_. But…but soon. God_, it has to be soon._

…

…

There was a brief period of heavy snow, just after the New Year started, but for the last week, it's been fairly mild; very unusual weather for this time of year. It's was mild enough that Sybil chose to walk to the hospital today...her last day.

…

I am sad for her, truly. I know that she will miss it and I know how dear nursing has become for her. She truly has a talent for it, and I've always been amazed at how well she handles herself under some of the stresses and strains she had to endure with that job, not to mention the way in which she could just…command and lead others! I know I make jokes about posh folks barking orders, but…this isn't like that; Sybil as a nurse is in many ways like a General, commanding and inspiring and leading her troops into battle! I am in awe of her…and I am sorry that this time has come to an end.

…

…But God forgive me, I'm selfish enough to admit, there's a part of me that wonders…will this be our time? She said she needed to wait until the War was over, and I know that also meant until her duties as a nurse are over. But today…today is her last day, her last shift at the hospital, after today…it all ends.

…

So I wonder…will she come to me tonight? Will she come and say…yes?

…

…

…

Poor Jane, I think I startled her just then. She just popped by the garage to offer me an apple that she had gotten from her mother. I practically flew to the door upon hearing the sound of a woman's shoes on the gravel outside, my heart leaping and hoping that it was Sybil. God, this is what my anxiety has done to me; I used to be able to tell Sybil's walk and stride and the sound of her shoes apart from every other woman, and yet now, every time I hear footsteps, be it Daisy, Anna, Lady Edith—even Mr. Carson! I jump and wonder if it's Sybil. And now Jane can be added to that list. I am grateful though, for the apple. I'm eating it right now, and…it does have, surprisingly, a bit of a calming effect. Mrs. Patmore did point out that I barely touched my porridge at breakfast…or any of my supper last night, for that matter. She said something about an "empty stomach leads to an empty brain"—she may have a point.

I should have known that wasn't Sybil, as I said, she's at the hospital today for her final shift. I don't know when exactly she'll be coming back—she told me in the brief time I saw her this morning that because of the mildness of the weather, and because it was her last day, she wanted some time to herself, and therefore she insisted on walking. I didn't want to argue with her, nor do I want to push her—I want to be as understanding and as patient as possible with her, truly! I know…I know this is hard, God I can see it on her face, I can read it in her eyes—I just wish she would talk to me about it.

Ever since the Servant's Ball at Christmas, she's thrown herself into her work, even though there hasn't been as much work for her to do. So many of the convalescing officers returned to their homes before Christmas, and the few that were still here at Christmas left shortly after the New Year. I don't know if this sudden surge of…of having her hands busy is a way of keeping her mind busy and off…

…

I just wish she would talk to me. I just wish I knew what she was thinking. I miss her now more than ever before; more than when she was away in London, more than when she was away in York—because she's _here_, and yet…it feels so far away sometimes.

…

But as I said, I should have known it wasn't Sybil. I saw Jane on the lane leading up to the house, just as I was returning from the Servant's Hall to the garage, pausing in my "work" to have a cup of tea (I was desperate for some sort of distraction). She was walking towards the house (Jane) when she stumbled—she didn't fall, thankfully, but the contents of her basket fell all over the lane. I moved to walk in her direction, to offer some help…but stopped when I saw his Lordship. He had been walking about the grounds earlier, and was on his way towards the house when he crossed paths with Jane. I realized there was no need to come forward, since his Lordship was there. Not to mention they seemed to be having some sort of…discussion, one that I didn't feel I should interrupt.

I don't know Jane that well, even though she's worked here since autumn. She has a young son; therefore she lives in the village and always leaves before supper (except on a few rare occasions). She seems friendly enough, though—and despite the tragedy she's faced in life, she always seems to be wearing a cheerful smile and saying something positive about others, especially his Lordship. Yes, I remember how the other day, she was asking little questions about his Lordship, or rather, wanting to learn what our thoughts and opinions were of him and working for him. I confess, I thought it a bit odd, but…didn't really think anything of it…

…

…She was disappointed that she couldn't attend the Servant's Ball, I remember that, but at the same time she knew she couldn't spend any part of the holiday away from her son, as it would be their first without her husband. Still, I remember her asking all of us how it had been…and…and I even think I remember her asking Anna if she had danced with his Lordship?

…

Anyway, I'm grateful for the apple, and hopefully when I next see her I won't startle her and _nearly_ cause her to drop them again.

…

…

I'm going to be in this garage all night at this rate. I'm still no closer to having that engine problem fixed. God help me and give me strength to be patient and overcome my worries. I do have faith in her, I really do…I…I suppose I just need to have a little faith in myself. I asked her to "bet on me" and she asked me the same in her letter…so that's what I need to do, just…have faith that everything will turn out alright. As I said, we're so close, I can feel it, I can practically reach out and touch our future, where we will be together, as husband and wife, finally…

Maybe I should take this period of waiting as a good sign? I mean…I still need to write to my mother, I still need to tell her the truth about Sybil, not to mention it would be nice to have some work lined up by the time I arrive in Dublin. I've been taking my notes—all those notes I made from those books in his Lordship's library, and typing them up into various articles, trying to make them sound like the sort of thing a publisher would be interested in. And…my New Year's resolution was to start posting them, which I have…and now I'm waiting; waiting to hear back from any of the offices I sent them to in Dublin, waiting to see what they think. And of course, that doesn't help my anxiety, either!

Waiting for a job offer…_and_ for Lady Sybil Crawley's answer.

My life has become a waiting game…

…

…

But despite my nerves, I don't regret any of it.

I meant what I said all those sixty-seven plus days ago…

I _will_ wait forever. There was never a doubt in my mind; she's _worth_ it.

* * *

><p><em>COMING NEXT...a prelude to *that* scene with the famous "hand on cheek" moment (which was Sybil's version of the "hand on hip" scene, I think)<em>


	128. Not Quite, But Almost

_THE MUSE IS A SINGING! __And I can't help myself, I'm on a roll right now, and HAD to get this chapter finished and posted, so HERE IT IS! We're getting closer and closer my friends! But until we get to that moment, here's an ALMOST moment...and that's all I'm going to say ;o) ENJOY AND PLEASE REVIEW!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Twenty-Eight<strong>

It was turning into one of "those days", the sort that would go down in your memory that you wish you could forget, or at the very least, wish for another day to start so you wouldn't have to linger another second in that one.

Tom quite literally had spent the entire day in the garage, with the occasional visit to the Servant's Hall for tea or…something; anything really to distract him from his anxieties. But not even the opportunity to put his feelings down on paper in his journal seemed to be helping. Even though he knew Sybil had requested the chance to walk home from the hospital so that she could reflect on her "career" as a nurse in Downton…he was still hoping that Mr. Carson or someone would tell him that she had called and wanted him to drive her back.

But there was no such message. So Tom once again, found himself in the garage, tinkering away, waiting and wondering when they would next see each other and speak.

During his various visits to the Servant's Hall, he overheard a great deal of commotion. The house was trying to reorder itself to how things used to be. Mr. Carson would grumble every so often about how they needed footmen again (of course Tom noticed that not once did anyone turn to ask Thomas if he wanted his old job back). Thomas even confessed to Daisy, who asked what he would do now that the War was over, that he had no plans or nothing lined up. Yet for someone who had no plans, he didn't seem too…worried, about the future. Tom shook his head and decided to stay out of it; he had avoided making enemies with both Thomas and Miss O'Brien for so long, why start now? Especially when he might not be there for much longer…

Mrs. Patmore continued her grumbling about the lack of incredients and that even though the War was over, they were still having to live with rations. Tom did his best to keep his chuckles over the situation to himself; Mrs. Patmore was more like Mr. Carson than perhaps the butler knew. Even though the War should have taught everyone the importance of simplicity, the Downton cook still wanted to go back to how things were, and serve a seven-course meal that would be the envy of kings.

Yes, indeed, there was very much this desire for things to go back to how they were before the War, both downstairs and up. He knew there were some "tensions" happening between his Lordship and her Ladyship about what to do now that the War was over; he had overheard some of these frustrations being discussed between the two of them while driving them both to Ripon one day. He couldn't help but wonder if Sybil was aware? But it wasn't his place to say anything, it wasn't his business; and the last thing Sybil needed right now, as she weighed her answer, was any worry or anxiety about her parents and their marriage.

Despite his Lordship's desire to have everything go back to how it used to be, Downton was facing some large changes, even after the last of the hospital supplies was taken away. The biggest change, at least for the staff, was in the knowledge that Mr. Carson would be leaving Downton…and going to serve as butler to Lady Mary and Sir Richard Carlisle. It was a shock to everyone when Mr. Carson finally made his announcement, just after the New Year began (it was clear judging from the look on Mrs. Hughes' face that she knew about it) yet it was also clear judging by that same look that she would miss Mr. Carson very much.

And even though Mr. Carson hadn't even left Downton, there were murmurings amongst some of the housemaids if Mr. Bates would take over. Tom had a feeling Bates would politely decline the offer if it were given, but at the same time, he couldn't help but smirk at the idea of how irate Thomas would become if Bates took that position away from him (Thomas could talk a good game about how he was done with working in service, but if that were true, then why was he spending all his time down there in the Servant's Hall, rather than being out in the world, forging a new life for himself…_away_ from Service?) Because of the death of Bates' estranged wife, things for both he and Anna were put on hold, at least for the time being. Tom hoped that they would soon be able to sort things out; he would at the very least like to be still in England to wish them health and happiness before their marriage.

Yes, the house was trying to get itself back to order, back to "how things were" and in some people's opinions, "how they should be". Yet there were changes everywhere…except in one place that was very dear to Tom's heart. And it was starting to drive him mad, and if he were honest, a little envious as well.

So before he could snap at someone for asking him why he looked so down, he forced himself to leave the Servant's Hall and mentally locked himself away in the garage, determined to conquer that engine problem on the Renault…and perhaps do some more research on various newspapers in Dublin to whom he could submit his work.

Perhaps if he kept planning for a future with Sybil…it would help conquer his fears and worries?

_We'll get a flat…somewhere near a hospital, so she won't have to walk very far to work—oh God, will she mind? I just…I mean, she loves working as a nurse, but will she mind having to work to earn a wage? God, we've never really discussed that—I need to talk to her about these things…if I do, we'll that insult her? I mean, she's very intelligent; no doubt she's already made the assumption she will have to work and earn wages in order for us to live, but…_

He cursed as the wrench he was using hit his thumb. He paused for a moment and took a deep breath.

_We'll get a flat…somewhere near a hospital, so she won't have to walk very far to work, he began again. I'll find work for a paper or something, and hopefully they'll be a considerate employer, allowing me to the chance to stay and work from home, when we have children. Oh Lord…how many children? That's something else Sybil and I have never discussed; I know it sounds selfish of me, and I will love any children I have with Sybil—but I must confess, I would dearly love a daughter. A little girl with Sybil's eyes and hair, a little girl who will be like her mother in so many ways—marching through the house, crying out for women's suffrage, perhaps in her own miniature version of Sybil's harem pants?_ He began to chuckle at the thought, feeling his mind and body relax as the anxieties began to drift away. _We'll read to our children every night; I'll teach Sybil some Irish lullabies and we'll sing them together. We'll carve turnip jack-o-lanterns for All Hallows Eve, Mam will tell them all the spooky ghost stories of my childhood about banshees and leprechauns. They'll be fluent in both English and Gaelic! And they'll be taught to stand up for justice, for equality, for— _

Footsteps.

Tom froze as he heard the distinct sound of footsteps on the gravel just outside. He listened, his head still in the bonnet of the Renault as they drew closer. They weren't hurrying…in truth, they were slowing down, more and more as they approached the garage.

Tom swallowed, turning his head slightly to the opened garage door (the garage could sometimes get quite stuffy, so despite the cool evening air, he had the door open) and felt his heartbeat increase…as _she_ slowly entered the garage, a sweet and…possibly flirtatious smile, spreading across her lips.

He straightened himself and immediately reached for a rag to wipe his hands; he didn't want to get any oil on her dress—he had such a desire to cross that small space between the two of them and take her in his arms and press her against the wall of the garage (or the side of the Renault) and kiss her the way he had kissed her at the Servant's Ball.

God in heaven, she looked beautiful. In fact, beautiful didn't seem to be a proper enough word to describe her loveliness. Her gown was one he had seen her wear before; one that in some ways, reminded him of her harem pants. He grinned as he remembered the black and gold dress she had had altered to be like her blue harem pants. Sybil certainly had a unique taste in fashion, and Tom found that he rather liked it. While he knew that the life they would have in Dublin would be very different from her life at Downton, and there would be little opportunity or reason to wear such frocks…he hoped she would bring them with her.

"You look very fine," he murmured, his eyes never leaving her, running up and down her figure from the top of her head to the toes of her feet, forever admiring her beauty.

To his delight, she blushed and smiled at his words. He loved the he could do that, make her smile and, hopefully, feel beautiful.

"Everything I own is from my season before the War," she murmured, looking down at her dress and running her hands across the skirt, as if to tame some unseen wrinkle. "I'm trying to wear them out."

He was no expert on fashion, especially the fashion of aristocratic ladies. If she was trying to tell him that the dress was old fashioned, and making excuses for it, he was the wrong person to say this to; he thought she looked stunning. Of course, he knew he would find her stunning if she simply wore a burlap bag.

"Where have you been all day?"

His eyes shot up from admiring her figure, his mind moving far faster than it should. He was imagining the two of them coming together at the end of a long day, preparing for bed. He was imagining helping her out of such a frock…and letting his hands linger longer than they should on her skin…

"Nowhere," he quickly answered, putting a smile on and trying to tell his brain to cease its illicit thoughts, which was a herculean feat in its own right. "I've just been busy," he lied. Well, it wasn't a complete lie; he had been busy…with a task that was only meant to take him thirty minutes.

Tom was amazed by the way she looked at him…her eyes filled with…admiration?

"I envy you," she confessed, taking a step closer to him. Tom felt his heart leap in his chest as she took that step and looked at him with those large, blue-gray eyes of hers. "I feel so flat after the rush and bustle of the last two years," she explained.

Even though he knew some women, like his mother, would have loved a day of complete leisure, the sort of day his people often thought aristocratic ladies "suffered" from…his heart went out to her, because he knew she wasn't such a lady. If anything, her desire for work, her yearning to be involved and to make a difference in the world was inspiring! It certainly shook any traces of the cynicism out of his world view.

"They were sighing for the old days at dinner," she continued explaining, and he couldn't help but grin slightly at the little face she made when she told him this. He suddenly remembered some words she had spoken to him, years ago, before the convalescent home, when she had just begun her work as a nurse…

_"So you wouldn't go back, to your life before the war?" _

_"No, I can never go back to that again."_

He couldn't deny, the memory not only brought a smile to his face, but once again, as it had done that day, fill his heart with hope.

"…But all I could think about was how much more I want from life now than I did then!" she exclaimed to him, just like she used to do when they would talk about politics.

Tom knew he couldn't hold his question back, he had to ask it, he had to know. "Does this mean you've made up your mind, at last?"

He inwardly cursed himself for the words he used. _Well done, make it sound like she's fickle and that you're impatient, even though you assured her that you would wait forever, which you will do, because you love her, she's the only girl in the world for you, and she's worth any length of time to wait—but well done, Tom, well done! Guilt always brings people around to your way of thinking—_

His heart began to plummet as he saw her face fall at his question. He wanted to let out a curse for his stupidity…and for the cruel reality that they remained trapped in what sometimes felt like a never-ending circle of waiting.

"No…" she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Not quite."

Not quite.

_Don't look disappointed_, he screamed at himself. _Just…force a smile, and…and give her the time she needs. This isn't easy for her, you know that, you know she's struggling, just—_

"But almost!" she added, as if seeing his despair despite the smile he was trying to put on.

He was looking down, trying to think of something to say, wanting to change the subject, but at the same time afraid to meet her eyes for fear that she would see his worries, his anxieties, all those things he had been trying so desperately to hide and keep under control, because the last thing he wanted was for her to feel any more pressure than he believed she was facing. Yes, yes, this was a huge decision for her, he knew that, he was aware of that, and he respected the difficulty she was facing—if he could, he would take all that difficulty away! At the very least…he wished she would tell him what she was thinking, what she was afraid of…but then by that same token, shouldn't he also tell her what he was afraid of? Why he was struggling, ever since the new year began, ever since the War ended, ever since that kiss they had shared in his cottage the night William had died? Yes…he should. But he was afraid to showing such vulnerability—

Tom's heart suddenly came to a stop, as did his breathing…when he felt her small, satin-covered fingers touch his cheek.

They had touched before. He had held her hand, he had squeezed her fingers, their fingers had interlaced. He had touched her waist, her hip, they had kissed, for heaven's sake! He had held her in his arms during the Servant's Ball when they danced…when she had come to his cottage and cried against his shoulder. He had wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer, feeling her body through the layers of fabric that divided them, his need and his desire for her kindling like wildfire. And she had touched him too, her arms clinging to his back, touching his chest, his shoulders, weaving around his neck to draw his mouth close to hers…

…And yet in all those moments, he could not recall her ever touching him in such a way as she was touching him now. Her delicate fingers, covered in a glove…touching his cheek, drawing his face back to look at hers…to see her eyes…and he did. His eyes met hers…and suddenly, his plummeting heart began to soar.

Love.

He saw it, there in the depths of her eyes.

_Love_.

Love…for _him!_

"_Not quite…but almost."_

"Sybil—"

"I can't stay long," she whispered, her fingers never leaving his face.

He actually leaned his cheek into her hand, his eyes closing as he concentrated on just the silken feel of her fingers. _She's wearing a glove, but I can feel her skin through it, I swear I can. _

"But…I wanted you to know…" her voice was so soft, so…emotional.

He opened his eyes and looked back at her, his own arms longing to hold her again, to pull her against his body, to never let her go and kiss her until they were both breathless.

"Let me know what?" he whispered, gazing down at her.

"That…that I…"

_Say it, Sybil, please…I need to hear it. I know how you feel, I can see it in your eyes, surely you can see it in mine? But let me hear the words too, please—_

"I missed you," she murmured.

While they weren't the exact words he had been hoping to hear, they were enough. _She'll save those words to when she gives me her answer,_ he thought. That was fine. Giving him such declaration now would result him never letting her go. It was hard enough right now not to reach out and pull her to him. He wanted to…he needed to…

…But it was for the best, at least for right now, not to give in to his desires. _I can wait…I can be patient. She said "almost"…and I believe her. I can do this, I can wait…she's worth waiting for; I will wait forever, no regrets._

"I missed you too," he murmured back, smiling down at her.

They stood like that for a short, sweet eternity, her fingers never leaving his cheek…his own hands aching to touch her as well, no words being spoken further, just the two of them gazing at the other.

A cold breeze blew through the garage then, reminding them both that despite the mild temperature, it was still January.

"You should go," he murmured, wishing he didn't have to send her away. "Don't want you to freeze," he softly teased, looking down at sheer fabric that covered her shoulders. He wanted to enfold her, or at the very least put his jacket around her to keep the cold away. But he knew she was right, they would begin to wonder where she was, and send someone out to look for her. And being as close as they were to their goal, there was no sense in jeopardizing any of it now.

"I know," she whispered…her hand finally falling away from his cheek. The second it was gone, he missed it. "I will miss you though," she softly declared, lifting her eyes again to meet his own.

"And I you," he murmured, meaning every word. He always missed her whenever he couldn't see her or speak with her.

"But soon, I promise," she whispered, her eyes urgent, reaching forward and taking his hand in both of hers. Then, to his surprise, she lifted his hand to her lips, and pressed an urgent kiss to his knuckles.

It was his undoing.

All that discipline he had told himself to observe was gone. His hand moved to the back of her head then and he lifted it away from his hand, lifting her head back so he could bend and cover her mouth with his.

"Mmmmmmmmm!" she moaned, the second his lips made contact, but she didn't protest, nor did she struggle. In fact, her arms reached forward and gripped the lapels of his waistcoat, pulling him closer, and pressing her lips in such a way against his mouth that he realized she wanted—needed his lips to part, to let her deepen the kiss.

Who was he to deny her?

"Mmmmmmmmm…" Tom moaned against her mouth, gasping as he felt her sweet tongue invade, taking his own prisoner. That was fine; he would gladly be her prisoner for all eternity. In many ways, he already was.

"Tom…" she gasped against his lips. "I…I really should go…"

"I know…" he groaned, kissing her again, his own hands pulling her even closer, his desire quite obvious as he pressed himself against her, his hands flat against her back, drawing her against him. She whimpered his name as his own tongue sought hers, deepening their kiss again, and then to both their surprises…_she_ moved her body in such a way against him that—

"SYBIL!"

He gasped, ripping his mouth away and seeing her face darken with a beautiful blush, and her eyes widen, as if she couldn't believe what she had just let her hips and pelvis do!

"I…I…" she blushed, swallowing and trying to regain some composure. "Was that…was that wrong?"

Wrong?

WRONG?

"God no," he groaned, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath…his hands on her shoulders, but the rest of his body taking a tentative step back. "No," he reassured again. "I just…it surprised me, that's all…but…but you didn't do anything wrong." _I did, though. I shouldn't have kissed you like I did, and as soon as I felt myself grow—well, I shouldn't have moved so close._

"Did it…feel good?" she asked, her eyes lit with curiosity, but her sweet face filled with such innocence, as well as such…longing. The same longing he felt.

Tom couldn't help it. He began to chuckle. "Did it feel good?" he blushed and tried to get his breathing under control. "Aye…it…it felt very…_very_ good."

She bit her lip and looked down, then quickly lifted her eyes, her face an even darker shade of red, and tried to focus her eyes somewhere else, first at the bit of skin at his throat that was exposed…then somewhere else in the garage, but her eyes fell to the Renault…which probably wasn't the best place, because if Tom could have his way and didn't have to worry about consequences of any kind, he'd be extremely tempted to guide her to that car, and show _exactly_ how good she had made him feel.

Despite her bashfulness and surprise…she seemed rather…proud of herself. And he couldn't help but admit, that look made him smile.

"I do apologize Branson for my forward and rather 'unladylike' behavior," she softly teased. "I suppose a chaperone is needed; after all, I would hate to take advantage of your virtue."

He laughed at this, and soon she began to laugh as well. He liked that she wasn't being serious; because a part of him wondered if he needed to apologize for…well, for reacting as he did…but…it seemed that Lady Sybil Crawley was not disgusted by his body but…rather intrigued. And…interested? God, it was the sort of thought that could make a man's knees buckle! Just like when she told him that one night that he was the first man to have kissed her; such confessions and realizations could horribly inflate his ego.

"But…you are right, I should go…"

He nodded his head, his hands falling away from her and taking another safe step away.

"Sybil…" he murmured, wanting to say this before she left. "I…I know this is difficult—"

"Tom—"

"Please," he asked, lifting a hand. "I just want you to know…you _can_ come to me if you have any worries about…_anything_. I meant what I said; I _will_ wait for as long as it takes."

She looked at him, and that light teasing and flirtatious air he had seen earlier was replaced once more by that pure, sweet love he had seen in her eyes (it was always there, but now, just like when she had first approached him, it radiated more than any other emotion).

"Thank you," she whispered, and took a risk by stepping towards him and pressing her lips against his cheek, the same place where her fingers had touched him earlier. "I don't deserve such patience."

"You don't deserve pain and frustration," he argued. "And that's the last thing I ever want to give you."

Something was shining in her eyes. It made his heart soar and his arms ache once more to hold her, but this time, he truly did resist the urge.

"Goodnight, Tom," she whispered. "And thank you again…for…for everything."

"You are most welcome, milady," he murmured, bowing his head just slightly, before reaching forward, taking her hand in his, and pressing his lips to the back of it.

He felt her shiver, but before anything further could be said…or the dam of desire broke once again, he released her hand, and then moved as far away as he could, until his back hit the car.

"Soon…" she promised again.

He nodded his head. He believed her. Just a little more time…

"I'll wait forever," he answered, smiling as he saw her blush at his words.

"I told you, I'm not asking for forever."

"Then forever can mean something else," he simply answered, smiling at the way she gasped, and blushed and looked down at her shoes.

"You really should—"

"Yes," she whispered, looking up at him and smiling back into his eyes, her own still shining with unshed tears, but he knew they were not from sadness.

She turned then, and finally left the garage. He walked to the door and watched as she hurried back inside the house, his heart soaring and trembling all at once.

_Soon I will kiss all those tears, no matter what kind they are, away from her eyes, _he vowed._ Soon I will be able to hold her and never have to let her go. _

Soon…not quite yet, but almost.

_Soon_.


	129. Sybil's Diary XXXI

_WE ARE *ALMOST* THERE TO THAT MOMENT! :oD Of course, angst will be right on its heels ;o) but we're SOOO CLOSE! But here are Sybil's thoughts from what happened between her and Tom the previous night, as well as her thoughts on her family and who she can perhaps trust...as well as weighing her options between saying anything to anyone beforehand...or simply running away. Thank you SO MUCH to everyone for their support and comments from the last few chapters! I'm just so excited to be entering this phase of the story, I can't help in writing and updating! :oP Hope you enjoy!_

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><p><strong>C<strong>**hapter One-Hundred and Twenty-Nine**

January 17, 1919

I wish there was some mechanism, some way where you could send a message to someone, and instead of waiting for them to reply in a matter of days, they could reply almost instantaneously!

…

Alright, I suppose that's what a telegram is for, but…you still have to go and receive telegrams from a telegraph office, and what I have in mind is something a little more…portable, perhaps, or that resides in one's home.

…

Lord, the way I talk; the way my mind works! Basically, I…I'm just very eager to hear back from Susan. I know it's impossible for her to have both received my letter, read it, and then write a reply and for me to receive in the short period of time since I last wrote to her. But every time Carson comes in with the post, I sit up a little straighter, hoping and waiting and anticipating for him to drop Susan's letter in my hands…

But not yet. And of course, if I use rational thought, I know this to make sense but…rational thought seems to be something people often forget, when they're in love.

Oh, I just…I want answers to my questions about…about Gretna Green, because I am seriously giving it some thought! I mean, if Tom and I marry, then...well, then they CAN'T separate us! I know Papa will be furious…and Mama will be heartbroken and disappointed…

…

…

But…but I do think it's for the best.

…

…Isn't it?

…

Only…well, if we marry first, then as I said, Papa can't have Tom arrested and deported…

…

…

Actually, I'm sure if Papa wanted to have Tom arrested, even if I insisted that I willingly married him, he could. But…but he couldn't hold me back—not that he could do that even if we weren't married, but…

…

…

I'm so confused. I…I love Tom, that is true, and I want to be with him, but now I find myself wondering if we should marry before saying anything or wait? I was so sure up until sitting and writing this that "yes! Let us run away to Gretna Green before anyone can stop us!"…but now, I'm wondering if that's the best answer?

Lord, I really should speak with Tom about all this. But…but I don't know if I should until after I say "yes", and…why am I waiting? I mean, I can tell him "yes" now, can't I? I can say that, and then tell him that I just need to decide how to tell my family—

…

No, no, I can't do that to him. God knows Tom has waited LONG ENOUGH! I will not test his patience further. He says he'll wait forever, he tells me he means it, but…no, no, I can't do this to him again. I need to make up my mind, prepare, say my goodbyes…and go. Go and start my new life…with him.

…As _Mrs._ Sybil _Branson_.

…

Lord, saying that word causes my skin to tingle! Rather like when Tom kisses me…

…

Oh God, last night…I…I just wanted to see him so badly, especially after the events of the day. My last day at the hospital, my last day as a nurse (at least for the time being)…and then having to sit and endure all the silly things my family kept saying!

I mean…it just seemed so silly! Yes, I know I've dressed for dinner like I used to, even during the War, but…last night…last night, just…sitting there and listening to them talk and go on and on about "the old days", and how things were then, and how they yearned for a return to them.

I mean, Granny! I know she's older and as Mama has sometimes reminded me, "set in her ways", but honestly! Papa made some comment about nearly coming down in a dinner jacket and Granny went off about why not coming down in pajamas or a dressing gown!

…

Oh Lord…now that I think about that, I would love that! Not having to go through this silly protocol of always dressing up for dinner, but…wearing whatever you wish, even something as simple as a nightgown and robe and slippers! I would love that! And not having to sit and wait in the drawing room, just going into the dining room (going into the kitchens even!) and sitting and having something simple, not a five or seven course meal, but…some ham and cheese and fruit—perfect! Or…some more of those delicious chips! Yes…oh yes, I would love that so much! Tom and I could simply sit in our robes, he in his pajamas and me in my nightgown, eating cold ham and cheese, or exchanging chips, not having to worry about being waited upon, simply waiting upon ourselves, and we could sit next to each other at the table…none of that ridiculous etiquette as to where a husband and wife must sit at the table, just sitting wherever we like! And…maybe I could…simply…sit on his lap?

…In my dressing gown?

…_Just_ my dressing gown?

Oh God, how I must look! My cheeks are burning! But I can't stop grinning!

…

Oh Granny. Is a dinner jacket so bad? Why must it always be a certain way? Why must we follow these rules? What point do they serve?

Cousin Isobel talked about the new fashions, the short skirts and looser cuts. Yes, I found myself smiling at her words.

I wonder what Tom thinks of such dresses? I wouldn't mind having one like that. Would he…would he find me pretty in something like that? He did say he thought I looked "very fine" in the gown I wore last night. Oh Lord, when I remember the way he looked at me…it causes my toes to curl! Just…the way his eyes moved up and down and over my body. I can't stand the way women are often objectified in photographs and illustrations, but…it didn't feel like that to me, when he was looking at me. It made me feel…I know this sounds strange, but in all honesty, it made me feel…strong. Like…I had some sort of…power over him. And…and I must say, I often do find myself admiring him and his figure…and he wasn't wearing his jacket last night, and he did have his sleeves rolled up, giving me a lovely view of his muscular forearms…

I'm no better than those men that objectify women. Why I'm sure that if given half the chance, I'll start salivating at the thought of him.

…

…

Yes, my thoughts on these conversations now are much more appealing than having to sit and listen to them last night. I even turned to Granny at one point and foolishly asked her if she really wanted things to go back to how they used to be—to which she answered "Of course I do! And as quickly as possible!"

I should have known better, of course. As Mama has countlessly reminded me, Granny most certainly is, "set in her ways".

But…I don't know, I just...felt compelled to turn to Papa and ask him the same question.

Perhaps I was hoping that…that his answer would help me see understand how he would handle such surprising news, about his daughter's decision to marry a working class man, move to Ireland, and work as a paid nurse in a city hospital?

Well…I can't deny, Papa's answer surprised me. If I remember correctly, I believe he said, "Before the war, I believed my life had value; I suppose I should like to feel that again."

…

I confess…I honestly don't know what to make of such a statement. I'm not really sure what to think!

Does Papa really mean that? That…that he didn't feel he served any "purpose" during the War? Because it's the opposite for me; I feel that my life for the first time _had_ purpose during the War, and like him, I want to feel that again, but…obviously not in the same way. He wants to go back to how things were…whereas I want to move forward.

…

Which makes me wonder if there is any point in talking to them beforehand? If they all want to go back and live in the world before the War, then…then I worry that they won't see Tom as anything but a servant; just "the chauffeur", as I remember Mary kept referring to him. Just a person one "plans journeys with by road", and nothing more. Not someone worth talking to, or listening to, or…or falling in love with and wanting to marry.

…

…

Perhaps my sister is right after all; this isn't fairyland. But…I was hoping that it wouldn't seem as bleak as it does.

…

I didn't really listen to much more after that.

Mary and Matthew and Lavinia and Sir Richard were talking about…boys' haircuts and Paris fashions and what was considered feminine and other such nonsense. I sat there and found myself seething, thinking not only how silly their conversation was, but also thinking about how my sister, and perhaps even my cousin, are making the biggest mistakes of their lives in continuing this charade of who they feel they should marry rather than marrying who they obviously WANT to marry because they LOVE that person…whereas I KNOW who I love and who I want to marry…and yet I'M THE ONE BEING THE BABY AND LIVING IN FAIRYLAND!

…

…

I nearly threw my diary across the room then. God, I was sorely tempted! I still am…

…

…

…

I do feel little better now, having had the chance to get up and…pace a little.

…

Tom said…he said I could come to him and talk about anything that's on my mind…and perhaps I should? Perhaps I should go down and tell him everything that's bothering me? I honestly don't know I haven't.

…

I thought about telling him those thoughts last night, actually. But…but I found myself easily…distracted.

…

Oh Lord, that's the problem! Now that I've kissed Tom Branson, now that I know what it's like to be kissed by him, I…God help me, that's ALL I can think about whenever I'm in his presence! Just…kissing him, and not stopping!

Last night, seeing him in the garage, seeing him and listening to him talk about being busy, God I missed that! Yes, it had been my last day at the hospital, but it wasn't a very busy one, not like before. In fact, Dr. Clarkson even sent me home early, saying there was little to be done that day, and thanked me for all my hard work during the War, and…more or less dismissed me, the way a teacher dismisses a child. And then after having to listen to Granny and Papa and Mary and Matthew and the whole lot of them talk about life before the War and how they more or less couldn't wait to go back to that sort of life…ugh!

…

Well, I shouldn't be too harsh on Edith. I think she's the only person who possibly understands me, or at least understands my frustrations right now.

Actually, we had a very interesting conversation earlier today. She and I were going through the rooms (and I was sulking; my first day since 1916 when I had duties of any kind) and I muttered something about how strange it all seemed, to have the house empty again, and she murmured her agreement, and then said something about just having to get used to it, and I…I unburdened myself. I told her I that I didn't want to get used to it; that I didn't want to go back to how things were, that I didn't want go through all those…senseless routines of dressing fittings or paying calls, all those things that women of my class are expected to do. I even said I don't want to "stand behind the guns". Being a nurse not only helped me feel what it was like to be useful and have a purpose, but it also…it helped me feel…strong. Just as Tom makes me feel strong. I wasn't some girl in the background; I was a woman with a voice! And I certainly don't want to lose that now that I've had it.

Edith asked me how one can escape all that. And…rather like I did with Mary, I took a risk…although unlike Mary, I didn't reveal _everything_…which in some ways is strange, as I think I can trust Edith a little more with my secrets, at least with my secrets about Tom…but…but I'm not going to do that again without his knowledge. But I did take a risk, I told her that…that I think I have found a way to escape.

She was immediately worried (I suppose I can't blame her; I do have a bit of a reputation in the family for being "the rebel"), and murmured that she hoped that whatever I was referring to wasn't anything "too drastic".

…

I couldn't lie to her. And…this was meant to be a test, so to speak, a chance to see how far I could rely and depend on my sister (after all, she taught Tom how to waltz! Did he tell her it was because he hoped to waltz with me?). Anyway, I did tell her it was drastic…and that once I make my decision, there's no going back. But despite the worried expression on her face, I kept my eyes firm and my held my head high and assured her that this _is_ what I want.

There was a pause…and then she revealed that she didn't want to go back to how things were, either. Oh Edith, thank you! She has no idea what those words mean to me, but they do give me hope.

Perhaps Tom is right? Maybe…maybe some of them, at least, will come around and accept us? I'd like to think that Edith will.

…

Oh Tom…his faith, his optimism is truly amazing. He does give me strength, in so many ways. And when I think about seeing him last night …looking dashing as always, looking so handsome…not even dressed in a tails or a dinner jacket, but…just seeing him, standing there and looking at me, and hearing his lovely voice telling me about how he was busy, and…God, it took every fiber of my being not to launch myself at him! I still wake up in the middle of the night, trembling as I remember how he kissed me at the Servant's Ball…and…and where his lips went…

…

…

Gracious, I'm actually sweating!

…

I…I didn't mean for it to happen last night, but…it broke my heart, having to tell him I couldn't go, I couldn't give him my answer, not just yet, and seeing him trying to smile despite my answer, I…I had to reach out, I had to touch him, to show him, just a little, that I love him and that there's still hope. And…and then I kissed his hand, and…and then he kissed me. And I kissed him back…Lord, how I kissed him back!

…

And then I did something else.

…

…

I…I remember feeling…well, I mean, I remember feeling…_Tom_…when we were in his cottage that night, and…I mean, I have washed and dressed wounds on men in various stages of dress and undress. My training and my work during these past two years has certainly broadened my…horizons...on male anatomy, so I was well aware of what was…happening…but…but I…Lord, I'm so shocked at how…how brazen I was! I mean…I just…I can't believe I…

…

And clearly I shocked Tom as well! But…but he assured me it wasn't…that what I did wasn't…wrong, meaning how I…well, how I…

Well.

…

He also assured me that it felt _good_. And…and I can't deny that did…well, that did make me smile.

…

And I can't really say that I'm sorry because…I'm not.

…

Oh God, I can't believe I did that! I just…OH!

…

…

…

I literally had to hide my face in my pillow and cover my squealing just that! Good God, I…I can't stop blushing or giggling!

…

…

That's the problem with Tom; lately, whenever I see him, all I want to do is kiss him and hold him and…apparently, thrust and rub my hips and pelvis against him!

…

…

Oh God, someone will be coming to check on me if I keep squealing like this, even if it's into my pillow. I need to calm down and try and keep a cool, level head…if that's possible when thinking about such a man.


	130. You're My Ticket

_Happy Belated Valentine's Day! I had originally hoped to post this chapter on the 14th, but it became a great deal longer than I had anticipated...but that's ok! I actually am quite happy with how this turned out, and I hope you like it too! This is the chapter we have ALL BEEN WAITING FOR! From here on out, it's official...Sybil Crawley & Tom Branson are a couple! WHOO HOO! So I won't waste much more of your time with this silly author's note. I will simply say, that I did the *bare minimum* of research about Gretna Green in preparing for this chapter (and in preparing for the one down the road). Anyway, if you know a great deal about the wedding laws of Gretna Green, you might find yourself shaking your head at some of the things Sybil says, but that's intentional, because I want her to basically come across as someone who doesn't know much about Gretna Green other than what it's famously known for!_

_Dedication? I'm dedicating this lovely chapter to ALL Sybil/Tom fans everywhere! Keep rockin' and rollin' the AU, my friends! Thanks for reading!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Thirty<strong>

She stared up at the canopy ceiling of her bed, one hand lying across her stomach while the other rested atop her heart.

It was beating a mile per minute.

She felt as if she had just partaken in a marathon run. She couldn't stop panting! Nor could she stop smiling. In fact, her smile only continued to grow and grow…until she was overtaken with giggles. And then she found herself twisting onto her side, reaching for a small pillow that adorned her bed (purely for decoration) and pressed it against her face and emanated a rather gleeful squeal.

_It's happened…it's actually, finally happened!_

She never gave a fig for the predictions of carnival fortune tellers, however it did seem that tonight, the "stars were aligned" and providing her guidance on what to do. Indeed, the evening seemed to have been full of signs, from her cousin's miraculous recovery to the news of his and Lavinia's impending wedding—everything seemed to be screaming, _TONIGHT! TONIGHT! TONIGHT!_

And to think, the day had begun so gloomy!

She clutched the pillow now to her chest, hugging it to her as she would hug her beloved, if he were there. Yes…she reflected back on the day, reflected with how bored she was feeling, how empty life now seemed to not have any work to do. She envied her mother, who rose and left early to help Cousin Isobel. She envied her cousin, who had the independence to go forth and do whatever it was she wanted. She envied Anna, who she caught by accident, sneaking a kiss from Bates when they passed each other in the corridor outside her parent's bedroom. To work, to live, to be with the one you love, of your own choice, your own free will, to follow no one's rules but your own. This madness, this waiting, it needed to end. But there was still no answer yet from Susan, and she honestly wanted to wait until she had received a reply from her friend, before proceeding further.

At least…that was the excuse she had made for herself. But in truth, she knew deep down, she was afraid.

_You can't have someone else make your decisions for you! If you truly want that freedom and independence to which you covet, then you must be willing to take risks! _

She had hoped to see to Tom; to perhaps manage an opportunity to sneak out to the garage, as she used to have done, before the War, before…before she realized that she was in love with him. Yet he was not there (taking her mother to help with Cousin Isobel, of course). So instead, she found herself once again, wandering around the house, bored to tears and staring at the vacant spaces in each room, where once there had been six or seven officers, sitting and playing cards, or dictating letters to loved ones, or lying on their cots and reading. She missed the chaos, the noise, _everything_. No…just as she had said to Tom that day in the hospital; she could never go back.

Edith had warned her that Mary was in a foul mood. Apparently Carson was having "second thoughts", according to Edith, about going and working as Haxby's butler. Sybil was surprised by this news; she knew how dearly Carson adored her sister, and therefore she could understand Mary's anger at the knowledge. Still, she took Edith's advice and avoided Mary for a great bulk of the day. It was just as well; she didn't want her parting memory from her sister to be yet another row.

She returned to her room after luncheon, and it was there that she stayed until the dressing gong was rung. Now, Sybil sat up and looked around her room, around the space that had been uniquely her own, all her twenty-plus years at Downton Abbey. Surprisingly, there wasn't a great deal in her room that she cared about—other than the few books on her shelf, the jewelry box on her dressing table, and a porcelain figurine from her American grandmother. But when she thought about it…everything she dearly loved, and would want to take with her to Ireland could easily be packed away in the same trunk and suitcase she had brought with her to York, all those months ago.

Well…unfortunately, her family of course would not be able to fit in those suitcases…and she wondered if their love would follow her, once she completed what both she and Tom were planning on doing? But she refused to dwell on such thoughts; not tonight!

No...tonight was to focus on wonderful, amazing, glorious things…miraculous things, in fact! She had just finished putting on her earrings and was about to slide on her gloves when she heard her father's voice shout down the corridor, calling her and everyone to hurry down to the library, quickly!

_Something's wrong…_

That had been her first thought. Yet…when she heard her father's voice a second time, she realized that he didn't sound frightened, or upset, or worried…but…eager.

With her gloves still in her hand, she rushed out of the room, seeing her father and Lavinia hurrying down the corridor, calling for her mother and sisters to join them, and all of them hurrying down the steps, down to the library, Mary asking along the way, "what's the matter? Has something happened?" Indeed, Mary was the voice that was filled with fear, but Sybil got a good look at Lavinia, and only saw joy in her eyes.

_Something has happened…but it's not something bad! _

She followed them into the library, her eyes falling on Matthew who was actually beaming from his chair! Lavinia rushed to his side, and Sybil overheard her father asking if something were true, but her eyes were glued to Matthew…as she watched with wide eyes as Lavinia helped Matthew…_to stand up!_

How…how could this be?

Yet despite her questions, Sybil couldn't help but smile. Soon she was beaming just like her cousin, and everyone was gasping in shock and surprise, but smiling too. Mary looked the most astonished, and her mother was practically shaking with happiness. Sybil could understand, she felt the same way! However, the nurse in her took control, and she quickly told Matthew not to tire himself out, to sit back down and wait until they heard from Dr. Clarkson.

Her father was quick to agree, and then turned to Edith, who was standing on her other side, ordering her to go find Tom and fetch Dr. Clarkson at once. Sybil's eyes flew to her sister's, and for a moment she wanted to argue and say "No! I'll go Papa! I'll go and tell Branson and we'll fetch Dr. Clarkson together!" but she stopped herself, both because she knew that if she saw Tom, she would most likely spend the first fifteen minutes throwing herself into his arms and hugging and kissing him because she was so happy for this miracle, while at the same time trying to explain what had happened…and because she knew that what her cousin needed right now was for someone with medical training to stay there, by his side, just in case.

That didn't mean, however, that it was easy to watch her sister go, when she hadn't had the chance to see him all day.

The wait for Dr. Clarkson (as well as Cousin Isobel and Granny) seemed to take a millennium. She was pacing in the hall, keeping her eyes on the window when the car finally pulled up. She squealed their arrival even before Carson managed to walk the length of the room, and it was she that threw open the door for them, Cousin Isobel rushing up and rushing past Dr. Clarkson, demanding to know where Matthew was, her eyes brimming with hopeful tears.

Tom was helping her grandmother out of the car, holding her hand and offering her his arm to lean on for support. Sybil rushed down the steps to where her grandmother stood, offering her own assistance, and both she and Tom exchanged the briefest of looks—but Sybil felt her heart melt at the happiness she saw in his eyes, and even though they couldn't speak…she hoped and prayed that he could see the message in her eyes: "tonight; I'll come to you later tonight."

Her grandmother muttered her thanks to Tom, and then let Sybil help her the rest of the way up the stairs, grumbling about everyone's need to rush, that if Matthew was better, why the sudden urgency? Surely that should be saved for moments of disaster! Sybil bit her lip to keep from laughing, and led the way into the library, where everyone was gathered. Time seemed to pass slowly again; she was unsure how much time had passed while Dr. Clarkson explained the reasons for her cousin's sudden, miraculous ability to stand and walk again. Apparently, Matthew had suffered from spinal shock, rather than a transected spine, which had been Dr. Clarkson's original diagnosis. He explained that the entire reason he had told Matthew that there was no cure or no hope that he would ever walk again…or have children, was because he feared the worst and did not wish to get his hopes up.

Tears were shed then, tears of happiness and gratitude, mainly by Cousin Isobel and Lavinia, but also by her mother and Edith and…yes, even by Mary. Carson came in, announcing that dinner was ready and her father insisted that everyone, including Dr. Clarkson, stay for the meal, and so there they all were, fit snugly around the table, practically touching elbows and shoulders, laughing and smiling and commenting on how wonderful everything was…and that was when the announcement was made.

"I want to tell you all something," Matthew said over the table, drawing everyone's attention. Sybil noticed how her cousin reached for Lavinia's hand, his fingers enfolding it, murmuring about how marvelous she had been during this entire time. Yes, Sybil had to agree, Lavinia had been wonderful; after she had returned to Downton (thanks to Sir Richard), and she had dedicated as much time as possible to looking after Matthew, to seeing to his every care and need. Why, Sybil herself and even taught Lavinia a few things that she had learned in York about caring for patients suffering from spinal injuries. Yes, it was fair of Matthew to say that Lavinia had indeed been…"the most marvelous person". But Sybil couldn't help but glance over at her sister, who was sitting just to her right. Despite all the recent rows and short tempers the two of them had had…Sybil knew that Mary had also done a great deal for Matthew. When Matthew had broken his engagement to Lavinia, Mary was by his side, helping him around the house, wheeling him about the grounds, keeping his company, tending to him, even holding the basin for him when he felt ill. Mary, who was sometimes thought of as being cold and unfeeling…truly showed her softer side during those difficult months, and Sybil couldn't help but admire her…especially since she knew, deep in her heart, that her sister desperately loved Matthew.

"I never thought we would marry…for all sorts of reasons," Matthew continued, his eyes still locked with Lavinia's. "But she wouldn't accept that," he chuckled, squeezing her hand affectionately.

Sybil felt her own heart leap at Matthew's words.

She thought of a different man; a man who had told her he would wait forever, who had stayed at Downton, despite the lack of hope she had given him. Yes, they had fought, they had shouted, she had even slapped him at one point. But they had also shared a great deal with one another, from fears and frustrations, to anguish and joy. And despite everything, despite her lack of ever giving him a direct answer about her feelings…he was still there, still waiting.

_I'd wait forever…bet on me…_

The table erupted then with murmured congratulations, and Sybil, both at the smiles being exchanged between Matthew and Lavinia…and her sister's sudden stiff posture and forced smile, that Matthew had just announced that he and Lavinia were going to be married…and now he was telling all of them that he hoped that as soon as he was able to walk down the aisle on his own, both he and Lavinia would very much like to be married at Downton.

Sybil's heart leapt again, only this time it was out of pity…and she felt the urge to reach over, under the table, and take Mary's hand in hers.

But she knew her sister would not appreciate the gesture. Her sister had mastered the art of the infamous "English stiff upper lip", and was quite good at hiding her emotions, even though her eyes gave everything away.

Poor Mary. Yes, her sister could lie and lie to her face as many times as she liked, but Sybil knew better; she knew that Mary didn't love Sir Richard Carlisle. The man she loved…was sitting at the far end of the table, which might as well have been the channel…and he had just announced that he was marrying another woman.

And while Sybil would admit that she liked Lavinia, very much, and that she certainly believed that Matthew cared for her a great deal…she truly believed, as well, that the woman Matthew loved, was sitting to Sybil's right.

_Fools_, she found herself thinking. To think…this whole silly charade could have been avoided if Mary had accepted Matthew's proposal that summer, when she had gone to London for her coming out. They might even have been married by now, with perhaps a child, or even two! They were both to blame; Mary let her doubts and fears get the better of her, and Matthew let his stubbornness and wounded pride get the better of him. He could have fought harder for her; he didn't have to leave when she rejected him! He could have stayed on, like Tom had, like Tom was doing, Tom hadn't left, Tom had _never_ left!

…Even though she and the world had given him a million excuses and reasons to go…he was _still_ there.

Glutton for punishment? Hopeless romantic?

…Or…the mightiest hero a woman could ever hope to find?

"Sybil?"

She was shaken by her grandmother's voice, brought quickly back from her thoughts. She muttered some excuse, and like her sister, said something about how wonderful and excellent it was for Matthew and Lavinia, how she was truly happy for them, and so on and so forth.

She sat there, her stomach twisting in knots as everyone continued to talk and Sir Richard resumed his conversation about Haxby Park. But the entire time her head was spinning…and she kept thinking about all the events leading up to this moment, all the words that had been spoken, not just this night, but all the nights before it.

The War was over. So many people—from across every boundary—had suffered. The world was not the same place it had been before it—change was everywhere! Changes for the working class, changes for the aristocracy, changes for men _and_ women! Those changes may move slowly, but they were there…and they were inevitable.

_It's time to move forward…it's time to embrace that change, to cease waiting and wondering. I could have lost him, but I didn't; he's still here, and he's still loves me—oh God, I truly believe that, he loves me, he must! Why else would he have waited all this time? He never left! I don't deserve him, and yet…he still wants me. How…how can I refuse such a man?_

She practically leapt to her feet then, causing the silverware on the table to rattle. Her grandmother turned and looked at her sharply, but just then Sybil realized she was saved from having to make some sort excuse, because everyone was beginning to rise then, and instead of the men staying behind to have brandy and cigars, they were following her mother into the drawing room, her father still laughing and squeezing Matthew's shoulder, as Lavinia wheeled him out. Mary took Sir Richard's arm, and her grandmother followed them. Edith, Cousin Isobel, and Dr. Clarkson followed suit…leaving Sybil to exit last, while Carson and Anna and a few others waited, prepared to come in and blow out the candles and begin clearing everything away.

She could have finished following the parade into the drawing room…but instead, she withdrew her gloves, and picked up her skirts, and began to move, quickly, down the opposite corridor, towards that all too familiar patio door, the door she had used multiple times to sneak in and out to see Tom at night. Her heart was racing, her steps were quick, and a smile began to spread wider and wider with every step.

Now. Tonight. Everything. It had all been leading to this…

Despite the urgency she was feeling, her steps stilled, slightly, the closer she came to the garage. The lights were still on (of course they were, Tom would have to drive them all back) but she was pleased to see his figure, silhouetted in the light of the garage, rather than to learn he was in the Servant's Hall. She was leaning against one of the cars…and she couldn't help but smile as she noticed he was reading the newspaper…

_That was how we began_, she remembered. Their secret friendship; him sneaking her political pamphlets, her sneaking him newspapers to help her find advertisements for Gwen.

Her steps were tentative as she approached. In some ways, she hated interrupting him. Also, here she was, this moment she had dreamed about, this moment that had been at the front of her thoughts ever since they had kissed, and now here she was…and she had no idea what to say!

Thankfully, Tom was rarely struck dumb.

He grinned as he watched her approach, carefully lowering his newspaper and refolding it. "You're very late," he softly teased. "Won't they worry?"

She couldn't look away from him. Her eyes searched his face, admiring the handsome contours of his jaw, his cheeks, even his nose and brow. They fell then to his neck, the collar opened just slightly…to his shoulders…his wonderful, broad shoulders which she fantasized about, constantly it seemed. He wasn't wearing his jacket…and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, once again providing her with the glorious view of his muscular forearms.

Good heavens…was this what lust felt like?

He was grinning at her, and she felt her face flush. She took a deep breath, and with an eager smile, quickened her steps until she was standing just in front of him. "They're all so excited, they won't care where I am," she assured, dropping her gloves on the Renault's bonnet, and turning her face to look up into his. He's much taller than he looks, she couldn't help but notice. Especially when she was standing like this, only a few inches away.

His eyes briefly followed her hand to where she had put her gloves (he laid his newspaper on the bonnet as well) and he smiled at her…a handsome, wonderful smile, full of genuine happiness for her and her family. "I'm pleased," he murmured. "I like Mr. Matthew."

And he would like Tom, she was sure. They had a great deal in common, she thought. Perhaps more than they realized? But she could easily see the two of them becoming close friends.

"He announced at dinner that he wants to get married at Downton," she explained. She swallowed the lump she could feel in her throat. Tom may not know it…but this was the introduction to her answer. "Somehow…it made me feel more than ever that the War is really over…" she paused to take a breath…and noticed how his smile had disappeared…and he was staring back at her, his look intense and…unbelieving. "…And it's time to move forward," she finished, her gaze never leaving his.

There was a pause…as if he was trying to comprehend what she was saying, what she was revealing. _Poor man,_ she thought. _He's waited so long, and all because of me…_

"Do you…do you mean you've made your decision?"

His words were barely above a whisper…and his eyes didn't blink, not once, as they gazed back into hers. The hope she saw was blossoming, like a lily on Easter morning…

"Yes…" she whispered, nodding her head, her own eyes holding his gaze. "My answer is…"

She paused, as she saw that hope begin to dim. He was pressing his lips together, waiting…preparing himself for…for her to break his heart…again.

_No, Tom. No more heartbreak, no more worrying or wondering, no more waiting!_

"…I'm ready to travel," she began, and she couldn't hold back, her smile began to break and spread and her eyes began to shine. "…And you're my ticket."

Light. That was the first thing she noticed. Light began to shine in his eyes, as once again, he took in her words. She was trying to be poetic; why should he always be the one to wax poetic romance to her? But her grin only spread further, as she saw that light spread from his eyes…throughout his face, causing him to radiate.

And now that she had started, she couldn't stop! "To get away from this house, away from this life—"

"Me?" he asked, his voice even softer than before, but so full of…wonder.

She knew that she shouldn't, but the little devilish side in her couldn't help but tease him, just a bit. "No, Uncle Tom Cobley."

Oh poor Tom! His mouth fell open, and his brow furrowed for a moment as if he were truly trying to figure out who "Uncle Tom Cobley" was. But thankfully, her laugh revealed everything, and soon he was laughing too, although she could see and hear the relief and…utter astonishment…in his voice.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, pausing to catch his breath, as if had just finished running a mile. "But…I've waited so long for those words…" he smiled, shaking his head in wonder. "I…I can't believe I'm hearing them," he confessed.

Her heart ached for him then. Yes, yes he had waited, and she was the cause for that wait; her fears and her anxieties, her worries that a love like there's could not be made possible…but nothing, she now realized, nothing was impossible, if they believed and worked hard for it. She knew that now…and therefore there would be no more waiting.

She gazed up at him with nothing but love and tenderness, her body leaning forward, eager once again to be in his arms, to hold him, to feel their bodies pressed together, a promise of how things would forever be after this night.

"You won't mind burning your bridges?" he asked, his eyes holding hers, offering her one more opportunity to turn him down and change her mind. Because her life would indeed be very different, marrying him. Even if they both worked hard for the rest of their days, and became the top name in whatever field of work they chose, they would never have the sort of money or luxury she had grown up with.

But that didn't matter to Sybil, and she had been coming to realize all these years that it never had! "Mind?" she couldn't help but giggle. She didn't need those things to feel fulfilled, to feel complete. No…all she truly needed…was Tom. "Fetch me the matches!" she declared, causing them both to laugh, and her to moan…as she could feel his left arm move around her body, encircling her waist.

He was lowering his head, and Sybil was eager. This wasn't their first kiss…and yet…in many ways it felt like it was. Our first kiss…as an engaged couple! Tom must have sensed it as well, because despite that familiarity that they had developed, he paused, stopping himself just short of touching her lips, as if…as if he didn't believe it—as if this were all some sort of dream.

"Yes…" she breathed, her voice, her eyes, begging him. "Yes, you can kiss me…" _I'm no dream. This is real, Tom. I'm here, standing before you, telling you that I love you and I want to be your wife! That I am ready to go, ready to be yours, completely! _

However, her mind did wander to some of those earlier moments when they had kissed…and things had become quite heated. She certainly hadn't forgotten how she had…discovered him…and let him know that she approved of her discovery, by pressing her own body against his. "But…" she looked up into eyes, feeling a little embarrassed for having to say this, but feeling it was probably for the best. "But that is all…until everything is settled." _I refuse to have my family think that the only reason we are marrying is because…well, because he "took my virtue"_. No, she was marrying Tom because she loved him, because he was her equal in every way. And while it was infuriating that a woman's value seemed to be measured solely on her virginity, she would not bend the rules so far in _that_ instance.

At least…not yet.

Her cheeks were suddenly flushing at the thought. Surely Tom could feel their heat as he brought his hand to rest against her face? He was smiling, and she felt her insides melt at the image, her heart doing somersaults in her chest as he lowered his face, his lips so close, his voice so soft, and yet so deep, as he murmured in such a way that she literally felt her toes curl, "For now, God knows it's enough that I can kiss you."

The moan barely escaped her lips…as suddenly his own were against hers. And the world spun away then, into a beautiful, wonderful, delicious void. And all that remained was the two of them, holding one another—clinging to one another—as they kissed, his hand pressing against her back, pulling her closer, her own hands moving around his shoulders, using their muscles to pull herself up, trying to press herself closer, wanting to feel more of him, his wonderful, solid frame…his warm, soft, delicious lips, and his tongue…Sybil was in heaven when she felt his tongue seek out hers as the kiss continued to deepen.

_I am my beloveds, and my beloved is mine…_

She remembered hearing these words once; she knew they came from the Bible. She had never understood such words until this moment…perhaps because she had never been in love until she had met Tom? She had never even considered love or marriage or…or anything…pertaining to them, until Tom Branson had entered her life. And now…all she seemed to think about were those things, and the life they would build together…as husband and wife; as each other's beloveds. _I am his, and he is mine._

"I still can't believe it!" he gasped, when the need for air caused them to break apart. He was chuckling, the sound rich and warm and causing his chest to tremble against her own. She giggled and pressed her forehead against his, her arms never loosening, still holding him close, holding him tight, just as both of his arms were locked around her, one palm flat against her back, while the other had moved up, and was playing with the strands of hair that had escaped from her bun and were falling down her neck. She should be mortified at such impropriety…but she never gave a great deal of thought to what was considered proper. Besides, if she had listened to propriety a long time ago, she would not be standing here, in the arms of the man she loved. She would most likely be doomed to face a loveless match like that of her sister—but she wouldn't think any more of that, not tonight. Right now, she was with Tom…and that was all that mattered.

"Believe it," she whispered, pressing her lips and meeting his chin, causing him to chuckle again. "Now it's my turn," she vowed.

"Your turn?"

She bashfully bit her lip, but nodded her head. "My turn to promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness."

He gazed down at her, and Sybil whimpered at the intense love and tenderness she saw in his eyes. _I don't deserve this_, she thought, gazing back up at him_. I honestly don't…he's far too good for me._

His hand that was playing with her hair at the nape of her neck came back around, and he reverently ran his fingers along her cheek, causing her to moan and lean into this touch. "So beautiful…" he whispered, and Sybil felt her eyes brim with happy tears. His fingers came to her chin and tilted her face up…and let his lips trace the run across the bridge of her nose and over her eyes, leaving the most gentle of kisses. "Just remember who said those words first," he teased, chuckling even more as she attempted to swat his shoulder, which was difficult, as she didn't want to loosen her hold on him; she never wanted to know what it felt like to be parted from him.

"I love you…"

She felt Tom stiffen suddenly. She held her breath as he gazed back at her, his eyes wide as he looked deeply into her own.

"You…you were right," she continued, swallowing the nervousness in her voice. This was the final hurdle, the last barrier between them. Well, almost the last, but they would cross that bridge on their wedding night. "The rest _is_ detail," she whispered. "Because…because I _do_ love you; in fact, I've loved you for so long, I…I'm not even sure I could tell you when I knew…let alone when I realized—"

His mouth was swallowing up any other words she had been about to speak. She was only too eager to let him, and returned the kiss with the same passion that was soaring in her heart, like an eagle in the heavens.

"I love you," he groaned, his mouth slipping away from hers and his lips already leaving a blazing trail across the skin of her face, her throat, her neck. She gasped and clung to his shoulders, as she felt his teeth gently nip the delicate skin over her pulse, before letting his tongue run across the marks. "I love you," he repeated, "Sybil Crawley, I have loved you since the day I saw you at the Downton station, when you return from your London season—although I'm sure it began much earlier than that," he chuckled.

"You have?" she whispered, the tears beginning to slip down her cheeks. She moaned and giggled as Tom's lips quickly began to kiss those tears away.

"Aye," he murmured, leaning his forehead against hers again. "I was so afraid…"

"Afraid? Why?"

"That you would come back with some beau, or worse, some fiancée," he confessed. "And I was so jealous, thinking of all those men who had the opportunity to dance with you—"

"You danced with me."

He opened his eyes and looked down at her with confusion. "I danced with you?"

She blushed but nodded her head. "And I'm not talking about the recent Servant's Ball. No…I…I had a dream that night, I still remember it as if it were yesterday," she blushed and giggled again. "I remember that dream so much more clearly than I remember that silly ball!"

He looked at her, his eyes dancing with merriment as he listened to her story. "You dreamt about me? Dancing with you?"

She nodded, her blush only growing more and more. "Yes…and you were in your livery," she admitted. "And you looked so handsome."

He grinned at this, and Sybil gasped, as his arms suddenly lifted her off her feet, and she suddenly found herself seated atop the bonnet of her father's car, and his arms were on either side of her, still holding her, but now she could look down at him, and rest her elbows on his shoulders. She couldn't deny that she liked sitting like this…and running her fingers through his hair.

"Have you dreamed about me a great deal?" he asked, grinning most cheekily.

"Gracious, you are full of yourself," she groaned.

"I have a right to be," he chuckled. "The most beautiful woman in the world not only told me that she loves me, but that she wants to marry me too."

She blushed again, and squealed as his fingers devilishly gave her a little tickle on her sides. "Stop it!" she laughed, swatting his shoulders. "Or else…I'll take it all back!" she threatened.

If her words caused him any worry, he didn't show it. "We'll need to make plans…" he murmured. "We'll need to find a church, get a license—" he paused, and she saw his face fall.

"What?" she asked, her hands moving to his cheeks. "What's wrong?"

He looked up at her, and she saw embarrassment and pain in his eyes. "I don't have a ring for you…"

"Oh Tom," she waved her hands in the air, a dismissive gesture, and then held his face in her hands, tilting it up so she could lean down and press her lips to his brow this this time. "I don't care about that—"

"But Sybil—"

"No," she said with the infamous Crawley haughtiness her grandmother was known for. "I will not let such thoughts ruin this moment; we'll take care of the ring later, but let us not worry about it right now…is that clear?"

His eyebrows rose at her words, but his smile soon returned. "Yes, milady," he answered. "Shall I be expecting more of this once we're married?" he gently teased.

Sybil bit her lip to keep from laughing, and instead leaned close, her lips only a breath away. "You can guarantee it," she promised.

"I always liked a woman with spirit," he growled, capturing her lips in another deep kiss.

Sybil's hands wove around his neck and shoulders once more, and she purred against his mouth as she felt his own arms weave around her, his body pushing a little closer…which meant that her legs were parting, allowing him the opportunity to lean into that space between them…her skirt rising, just slightly up her legs, the further and further they spread.

"Oh God, Sybil…" he groaned, his hands sliding from her waist to grip the bonnet on either side of her, giving him the chance to lean the rest of his body away from hers. She missed the contact instantly. "God help me, we can't procure a license fast enough."

She blushed as she realized what he meant. And in truth…she felt the same way.

_I know so little…and yet, I'm very, very eager to learn!_

"Gretna Green."

Tom lifted his head, his brow furrowed. "What?"

Sybil hadn't even realized she had spoken the words until he was staring up at her. But now that she had said them…there was no going back. Just like there was no going back on her vow to marry him.

"Gretna Green," she repeated. "Let's go there; we won't have to worry about special licenses or any of that nonsense, we can get married with very little fuss and no one can stop us!"

He stared at her dumbfounded. Had this really never crossed his mind?

"I…" his face flushed. "I…I thought that was something that only happened in novels," he confessed, looking a little sheepish.

She shook her head. "My friend Susan, whom I roomed with in York; she and her husband, James, eloped to Gretna Green! I was hoping to hear back from her, giving me all the details as to how they did it and where they went, but I haven't received a reply yet—"

"Good God!" Tom swore, staring at her in shock. "You…you've been thinking about this?"

He wasn't horrified, simply surprised. And…Sybil could see, in the depths of his eyes…a little impressed, as well.

"Well…a girl wants to be prepared," she blushed, biting her lip and looking down at the buttons that were undone at his collar, her fingers lazily playing with them.

A soft chuckle escaped his lips…and soon he was shaking his head, in amazement and quite possibly disbelief, before laughing all the more. "How long have you been scheming this?"

"Tom!" she gave him a little shove, which of course had no effect on him, whatsoever. "You make me sound so wicked!"

He growled then and leaned forward, capturing her lips once again and giving her another wonderful and passionate kiss that truly stole her breath. "I can't help it love," he groaned when the kiss had ended. "It's hard enough to believe that you love me and want to marry me—it's quite another to realize that you've been making plans for our elopement!"

Her fingers ran circles along the back of his neck, threading through the hair at the base of his scalp. Tom's eyes closed and he leaned his head into her fingers. He reminded her of a lazy tom cat, purring for her touch. "Rest assured, Branson; it was never for lack of love that I caused you to wait all this time…but…more because I lacked confidence in myself, and my own strength in facing the future."

He looked at her, his eyes still tender, but serious as well. "Are you still afraid of such a future?"

She swallowed. "A little," she answered honestly. But she gazed into his eyes and felt a smile spread at the corners of her mouth. "But I know you'll be facing it with me; and that gives me all the courage I need."

He smiled at this, and leaned in again, but this time the kiss was softer, tenderer, and full of so many promises.

"So Scotland then," he murmured, after the kiss had ended. "Did you want to wait for your friend's letter? See what she has to say?"

Sybil surprised herself again by the quick way she shook her head. "No…" she answered. "No…I'm done waiting; I don't want to waste another moment of our lives together, waiting."

He smiled at her and kissed her cheek. "I'm sure it will only be a few days—"

"I'm serious, Tom," she leaned back and looked at him, her hands on his shoulders. "I love you…so much. And I want this…" her hand fell to his chest, resting over his heart. "I want this so badly. And I know that's selfish of me, especially since it's my own fault with how long—"

"No," he shook his head, his own hand resting over hers, pressing it against his heart. "It's not selfish…and don't blame yourself; you were right to take the time you needed to make your decision. I would much rather have waited a millennia to know you were sure, than for you to rush into this and then live with regret later."

"Never," she answered quickly, her hands moving back to his cheeks, and holding his face so he could see her eyes. "I will never regret my choice—I love you, I want to be your wife, to spend the rest of my life with you, to work beside you, to…" she blushed then at her next words. "To have children with you…"

"Sybil…" he groaned, moving in, ready to claim her mouth again, however they were stopped the sound of footsteps outside.

Tom was quick, thank heaven, and swept her down off the car, just as smoothly as he had swept her up on top of it. As soon as her feet were on the ground, he moved like lightening to the door, purposefully blocking the view of whoever was coming.

"Daisy!" he said the kitchen maid's name a little louder than necessary, but it provided Sybil a chance to know who it was, as she ducked behind the car, holding her breath as she waited for Daisy to relate whatever message she had.

"Her Ladyship is ready to go," Sybil heard the kitchen maid explain. "And I think Dr. Clarkson is ready to leave as well…I don't know about Mrs. Crawley though."

"Thank you," he replied. "I'll have the car there in a minute."

Sybil listened as she heard Daisy's feet scurry back from the garage towards the servant's entrance, and only until Tom came around to her hiding place, did she emerge. "Duty calls," he sighed, somewhat playfully, doing up the buttons at his collar and rolling his sleeves down.

"I suppose that's my cue as well," she sighed, smoothing the wrinkles of her dress.

"Aye," he nodded. "As much as I would love to return and find you here…it is best that you go inside before they do notice—which I'm sure they have by now."

"It won't matter," she said, this time with a confident shake of her head. "Soon you and I will be married, and all this will be far behind us."

He smiled at her, and reached out for her hand. She didn't hesitate, and let him pull her to him, her head coming to rest against his shoulder, her arms moving around him and hugging him close, relishing the feel of his own strong, muscular arms enfolding her. Heaven was being in the arms of Tom Branson.

"When will you be ready?" he murmured into her hair.

_Now? Can we go now?_ Of course, she knew that wasn't possible, as much as she wished it. So she would have to settle for the second best answer. "Tomorrow?"

His eyes widened. "Are you sure?"

"Positive." There was no hesitation in her voice. None. "I'll tell them I'm feeling unwell, and won't come down for dinner."

He nodded his head. "Pratt should be available tomorrow; I can make a similar excuse. That way no one will suspect anything if I'm not there to drive your grandmother."

_This is happening,_ she realized. It wasn't just something she was complimenting in her head on her own this time; she was here, in Tom's arms, and they were talking about running away and eloping, _together!_ Crossing the Rubicon, hand in hand.

A shiver passed over her suddenly, and Tom's embrace tightened. "Are you alright, love?" he looked down at her, concern now etched across his handsome face. "Sybil, if you're having—"

"I'm not having doubts, or second thoughts," she stated, quite adamantly. "I love you—"

"I know, I believe you," he assured her. "And I love you, very much. But at the same time, I don't want you to do something that you're not comfor—"

She silenced him then with a kiss, robbing him of his breath and the ability to speak. "Tomorrow," she gasped, when their lips finally parted. "Carson will ring the dressing gong at half-past six; I'll meet you shortly thereafter." On her tip toes she lifted herself, gave him one last peck on the lips, and then hurried out of the garage, her feet feeling as if they had wings on her heels, like Hermes; she wouldn't have been surprised if she had flown all the way back into the house, and up the stairs to her room. She shut the door, locking it behind her…and with a great gulp of air, spun around the floor for a moment…before collapsing atop her bed, her breathing coming in short, quick pants.

And so here she was…lying on her mattress and gazing up at the canopied ceiling, her heart racing, and her fate sealed.

This was her last night in this house. Her last night in this room. Her last night sleeping in this bed. Her last night sleeping in any bed…_alone_.

The thought brought a crimson blush to her cheek, and yet she found herself giggling again, and squealing into the pillow that was clutched at her chest.

"After this night…I will no longer be Lady Sybil Crawley…" she murmured out loud, in such a soft voice, she wasn't even sure the Lord would be able to hear her. "After this night…I will become Mrs. Sybil Branson."

_Mrs. Sybil Branson._

She liked the sound of that. She liked the sound of that very, very much.

_It's happening…this is truly going to happen!_

Yes…she had no regrets, no second thoughts, none whatsoever!

…And yet there was still that nagging voice in the back of her head, that wasn't lecturing her in her choice of husband, but rather, in her manner of obtaining him.

_You do this…you truly will be spending your last night in this house. They'll never open the door to either of you, again._

She rolled over onto her stomach, tossing the pillow across the room. "That's their affair," she muttered. "Why must I be the one making all the compromises?"

_Are you? Are you even giving them the chance to push you into that position? With the exception of Mary, they don't even know you have feelings for—_

"Enough!" she hissed, pounding her fist down on the mattress. "Enough," she repeated. She was not going to be like her sister…or her cousin. She was not going to repeat their mistakes and always wonder if she had let the love of her life pass her by. No, she refused to go down that path, even if that meant…permanent exile.

This was her life, and no one else's. And just as she had said to Tom, she was indeed ready to travel and leave Downton behind. Tom was of course more than just her "ticket"; he was her destination, as well.


	131. A Seventh Letter to Nowhere

_An update, finally! Since the last chapter was mainly from Sybil's POV, I wanted to try and capture Tom's POV about everything that had happened in this one, but I wanted it to be told in what I hope is a "unique" way, and hope you will agree. The "attempt to elope" chapter is coming soon (not just yet, but soon!) so hang in there! I am going to try and write the next very quickly and not leave you all waiting as long as this one. Anyway, I hope you find this moving, as well as a little funny ;o) thank you again for all the wonderful feedback, it really is lovely to read and see and know what people are thinking! And I'm dedicating this chapter to **babageneush**, who helped motivate me when I needed it :oP (I had lots of motivating help actually, but hers packed quite a wallop!)_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Thirty-One<strong>

Dear Martin,

It's happened.

…

…

God, I…I can't stop smiling!

…

Truly, I'm…I'm sitting here, grinning like an idiot—

…No, not an idiot, a man in love. A man in love and who is LOVED in return!

Did you hear her, Martin? Did you? Did you see it? She told me that she loved me. _She_ told _me_ that she _loved_ me, of her own free will, and she said it _first!_

…

…

I…I keep pinching myself, wondering if I'm dreaming (and praying that I'm not). I just…I can't believe it, even though there was a part of me, deep in my heart, that just knew, that was so sure, but…it's happened. It's actually happened.

We're going to be married tomorrow. Sybil will be _my wife_.

…

Are you surprised by this turn of events? Or did you see it coming? When she came to the garage tonight, did you know why? Did you know what she was thinking before the words even came out? Did you know she was going to say "yes!"? There's a part of me that wants to believe that you did know…and that you were smiling down on me when she came through that door, knowing how happy I was going to be in a matter of seconds…

…And then there's a part of me that wants to believe you didn't know, that you are just as shocked and surprised as I was—as I still am, in all honesty! That you never thought this day would come, that I would end up wasting away at Downton, always waiting, always wondering…and then when it did happen, when she did tell me and not only said "yes!" but also told me that she loves me…I like to think that after you got over your initial shock, you smiled for me—that you're still smiling for me, despite what you once thought.

…

…

Are you…are you happy for me, Martin?

…

Perhaps that seems like an odd question; after all, when did I listen to your opinion about my "love life" in the past. I know you thought I was a damn fool when I told you the truth—even before then, when I lied and failed to mention that she was the daughter of my employer. You didn't hold yourself back in telling me what you thought…

…But…but I want to believe that despite our disagreements, you would be happy for me, now that this has finally come to pass.

But don't worry; I'm not as naïve as you might think. I know that the difficulty the both of us will be facing is far from over. In truth, it's only beginning. But…but despite those worries, and despite the fact that when I pause to think about it I realize how terrifying it all seems…I know it will be alright. And it will…because Sybil and I will be facing it together. And we'll have each other to lean upon when those moments are at their most difficult.

She's strong, Martin; I know I've told you that before, both in these letters as well as…as well as in person. But it's true, she is one of the strongest, bravest people I know, and her courage and determination gives me strength to face the difficulties that lie ahead. I do have doubts and fears, not about her (never about her) but doubts and fears that…that I'll be good enough—or that I'm worthy of such a person. But even in my darkest moments, when I thought everything was beyond all hope, she still somehow managed to give me the strength to carry on, to persevere; she truly does believe in me, Martin. When I say I'll make something of myself, she believes it! She agrees me with me, she encourages me! She's…she's perfect, Martin. And I'm not just saying that lightly because I'm in love with her. She truly is…perfection. And God help me, I will spend the rest of my life working to be worthy of such a woman.

…

We're going to be married tomorrow. Did you hear that? She's been planning and plotting our elopement! I…I can't stop grinning and laughing when I think about how far she's been planning this! I mean, I hoped she returned my feelings; there were times when I was certain that she did, but…but I never once paused to think, to comprehend, how _deeply_ she thought about me…_about us_. How foolish I was to think such things. And you can't understand what it does to me, to hear her not only tell me that she loves me and wants to marry me, but that she's been thinking about our future, that I'm not the only one who's been looking ahead, she has too! Which makes me realize just…just how long she's loved me…and just how long she's been planning to answer "yes"! I mean, did you hear her, Martin? When she told me about her dream of the two of us dancing at her coming out ball all those years ago? How long as Lady Sybil thought of me in…in _that_ way?

Is it possible that she's loved me as long as I've loved her?

…

…

So tomorrow, we'll be heading north, to Scotland, to the "infamous" Gretna Green (infamous only in its reputation as a place where star-crossed lovers can find sanctuary). But yes, tomorrow…which…which amazes me when I think about it. After all this time, after all these years of waiting, and worrying, and wondering…tomorrow, she and I will be husband and wife!

…

…

…

I…forgive me, Martin, I just…

…

It's overwhelming. Every emotion that I feel; joy, fear, excitement, anticipation, longing…

…

She'll be my wife; this time tomorrow, Martin! This time, tomorrow—Lady Sybil Crawley will become Mrs. Sybil Branson.

…

Oh God…

Oh God!

I…I just…I can't believe I only just realized…I mean, I…I would be lying to say I never thought about (God knows how often I've thought about it! And you probably know too, for that matter)—but…but I only just realized now that…that this time tomorrow she will be my wife in…in _every way._

…

…

Oh God. I…I feel as if I'm going to faint with panic!

I…it's been so long since I…well, since I…

…

Deidre…she was the last—oh God, why am I even thinking about her? That's the LAST THING I want to think about! I can't have that memory ruin my wedding night!

…

My wedding night. _Our_ wedding night. Sybil…I…oh God, will she be expecting—I mean, will she have…certain expectations? About…about my…?

…

…

I hope I'm providing you with a great deal of humor right now. No doubt you're rolling around on whatever cloud you reside, laughing at my anxiousness.

I just…I just want this experience to be...perfect. She deserves that! She deserves to feel treasured and…and pleasure. I don't want to scare her, nor do I want to hurt her! I just…I don't want her to be afraid of me, big clumsy oaf that I am, or afraid of…of what we will do. And I don't want her to have any regrets. I don't want that experience to be so…horrible that she'll never want to do…

…

I just don't want her to regret marrying me. I never want her to regret that, and…and I certainly don't want to give her any reasons starting on our wedding night! I want to be gentle, I want to sweep her off her feet, and…and make her feel wonderful and damn it, Martin, I'm afraid I'm just going make a fool of myself, the second we're alone, and…and fail whatever expectations she may have had and…and ruin that experience. I love her, I love her so much…and…and now I can't stop worrying! Oh God, she's so innocent, and yet she's not ignorant, I mean she has had training as a nurse, so that does mean she's seen…well, that she's seen…other men…and…and what if I don't measure up…?

…

…

I really hope you're enjoying yourself right now. I swear, if I close my eyes, I can hear you laughing.

…

Right...even though tomorrow will be a very long day, and I'll need all the rest I can muster to face it, as if I'm going to be able to get any sleep now? Tonight or tomorrow—

…

…

…

I think I need to go for a walk.

A good, long walk. In the cold.

…

It's been quite a while, Martin, since I've written to you. William's death—that was the last time. It's so strange; I wrote to you in a moment of despair, mourning the loss of a dear friend and once again reliving the horror of your death…and now I'm writing to you again, only this time, with a very different message…and very different emotions.

I don't know if I should apologize or not, for not writing as often as I used to. Is that a positive sign? I'm aware that these letters go nowhere, and yet…sitting down and writing them, I feel closer to you than when I simply sit and think to myself about what you would say to me, or how you would be looking at me. I imagine tonight, there would be a great deal of eye-rolling, but that would quickly be followed by some teasing remarks and…and some genuine smiles. That even though you worry for me…you truly are happy for me.

…

I hope you are. I like to think that you are.

I miss you, Martin. I wish you could be with us; I wish you could be standing there as my best man. But…but I know, in a way, that you will be. And I pray that you will bless us. In fact, that's what I'm asking for with this letter, I'm asking for your blessing. I know that may sound mad in some ways, considering…

…

Well, I don't care if does sound mad. You always were my dearest friend, more like a brother than a cousin, and I want your blessing, so…tomorrow, if it's possible, please…please give me some sort of sign? I'll know it when it happens, I'll be ready for it, and I'll be looking! But that's my wish, Martin, that's my prayer. And I thank you…always, for…for watching over me, even during those darker moments of my life. Thank you, my dear cousin, thank you.

I miss you. And yes, go on, make fun all you want for being overly sentimental, but…but I do; I miss you and I love you. And I do mean it, I thank you for being that pillar of strength that I needed during my time here. But now that's about to change; I'll be returning to Ireland soon, coming home…and bringing my wife with me. And her love will now be my strength. I suppose, in a sense…I relieve you of that burden, Martin. But I do thank you for carrying it and carrying me, even when I was being a complete arse. Just…thank you.

—Tom

P.S. I think…I think in some ways…this will be my next-to-last letter. I will write to you again, but…but that very well may be my last letter. I don't know, I just…we'll see. But I just wanted you to know that. And the next time I write to you…I'll be a married man.


	132. 1919: A Letter to Gwen

_Things continue to build as we get closer and closer to the "elopement" scene. But I wanted Sybil to have someone to confide in before she disappeared (and I think she would have done something like this) so here she is, reaching out to the one person who truly knows and understands *everything* that she's going through right now, and who has known longer than anyone, about this romance between Tom and Sybil (even longer than the two of them!) I am going to write another chapter tonight (a very short one) which will be the letter Sybil left on her mantle that Mary finds in 2x07 (I was always curious about what that letter said) so I will write that chapter next, post it, and *then* begin work on the elopement chapter...and the aftermath. I KNOW! ANGST! But we all know it's going to end well, so just keep remembering that :oP THANKS FOR READING!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Thirty-Two<strong>

Dearest Gwen,

I don't have much time, so this letter will be a great deal shorter than I would like. But I'm writing this to you now, in the few hours that I have this afternoon, when I can be assured I will be left alone, and before Carson comes to ring the dressing gong. I have to make sure that I'm packed and prepared well before that happens, because…because…

…

Gwen, I'm going to marry him!

…

…

I'm sorry, I'm just…I can't stop…

I'M GOING TO MARRY HIM, GWEN! Yes, you did not misread that, I _am_ going to marry Tom Branson!

…

Good Lord, I wish you could see me; one second I'm grinning and giggling madly, the next I'm blushing and crying! But they are not tears of sadness, no—no, quite the opposite. Oh I am most determined Gwen, most determined indeed! Tom and I will be married; Tom and I will be husband and wife, I'm done hiding my feelings, I'm ready to travel and Tom is…he's everything. I love him…I know I've written those words to you before, but now I can say them without doubt or fear; I love him—I love Tom Branson (I think I always have!) but I love him and he knows, Gwen, he _knows!_

I told him last night. Oh Gwen, so much has happened since last night! Matthew can walk again! It's a miracle, truly, I don't know how else to describe it and I'll tell you more about it in detail when I next write to you (which will be as Mrs. Sybil Branson!) but yes, Matthew can walk again, and…and he announced last night at dinner that he and Miss Swire are engaged once more, and that they want to get married here, at Downton, and…and looking across the table at my sister, and seeing her putting on a smile for Matthew's benefit, trying to appear happy when I know deep in her heart that she's not…and just…everything, Gwen; everything just seemed to be screaming at me in that moment that I can't let my sister's fate become my own; I love Tom—I love him, and he's waited so long for me, Gwen, so long. It's time to move forward, to finally tell him everything, the entire truth, to no longer live in fear or face a lifetime of regret. So I went to the garage, slipping out right after dinner…and I told him. I said "yes!" and then…and then I told him that I loved him.

…

…And then we kissed.

Oh Gwen, it was glorious! I…I mean…I mean Tom and I have kissed before, as…as I've shared with you, but…but to kiss now, now that have both opened up and bared our feelings to one another, it's…I don't know how to describe other than glorious; truly, it is the most wonderful, glorious feeling…and it's so relieving as well! To no longer have that shadow hanging over me, to no longer worry and wonder if he still cares for me as he did when he first proposed—the freedom that is in making such a declaration! I…I'm just…I'm so happy, Gwen, so very, very happy!

And I want you to know—you are the first to know, actually—Tom and I are running away together, to Gretna Green! Yes, that was what I meant about the need to be packed and prepared. Tonight, Gwen, tonight I'll be leaving. Tom and I will go to Gretna Green, be married, and…and then return to face them all.

…

…

At least…at least I think that's what we'll do. Although I cannot deny, it is very tempting to not even do that; to just runaway to Scotland and never look back. To take some boat to Dublin and live our lives as far away from Downton as possible.

…But I can't do that. I wouldn't want anyone to think Tom took me against my will, and…and they need to hear how I feel. They need to know that I love Tom and that he is my husband. I…I don't expect that they'll have anything to do with me after that point; Papa will probably deny my existence, but…but I don't care. I'm marrying Tom, and that is all there is to it. And…and I'm prepared for their censure; I am, I truly am! Or at least that's what I keep telling myself, trying to be brave—oh but I'm not going to think on that anymore; instead I'm going to imagine our wild, runaway marriage!

Oh Gwen, I never thought of myself as a romantic before, but…who knows, perhaps I am? If so, it's all Tom's doing, no doubt; him and his Irish blood.

…

…

There are so many questions that I have; so many things I want to ask you, as a married woman…but…but I don't know where I'll be living over the next few days, so I don't have an address to give you for your response. But once Tom and I are settled, I will write to you again, and tell you everything about the wedding! Perhaps…perhaps he and I can come and visit you before we go to Ireland? Oh please, Gwen, please…I hope so, I would love to see you and Edward and the children again before I go. Because I remember what you told me when you visited here, how you and Edward would support us, that you accept us, which is what I need Gwen, more than ever; you are my family now (you always have been in my heart) and…and I would very much love to see my "sister" before I travel to my new home.

So I will find a way to write to you again, very soon...and I will give you an address to which you can reply.

…

…

This is it; my last day and night in this house. My last letter, as "Lady Sybil Crawley". In some ways, it's overwhelming to think about…

But in other ways, I can't stop smiling. I'm ready, Gwen, I mean that, I really am ready! I know it must sound so strange, after all these years of waiting, but…but I _know_ my heart; I know what I feel is true, and now I have the courage to face that. So off I go! To Gretna Green, to marry the man who is everything to me, just as Edward is everything to you!

I wish I didn't have to stop writing, but I must. Time is of the essence, and…and even though it's something I've been debating about ever since I went to bed last night, I need to write a brief letter to my family, just so they don't form some sort of wild mob and accuse Tom of kidnapping me. It's my way of telling them that I love him—perhaps it seems a bit cowardly, not telling them face to face, but…but they would never listen! So…so I will write them a very brief letter and…and by the time they read it (I'll be telling Anna when she comes by that I'm not feeling well and would like to get some sleep) it will be the next day…and Tom and I will be married.

…

Oh Gwen. I wish you were here. I would hug you so tightly! And I would probably burst into tears (I'm already crying again—see what I mean about these emotions?) and then flood your ears with questions about…well…I'm sure you can understand what sorts of questions a bride asks before her wedding night. Oh God, my cheeks feel like they're on fire!

Thank you Gwen, thank you for your friendship and for your love. You truly are like a sister to me, and I will forever be in your debt for so many things, but especially for all that you have done for both Tom and me. Thank you, my dear friend, thank you.

For the last time,

—_Lady_ Sybil _Crawley_


	133. To My Family

_Yep, this is the shortest chapter I've written in a long time! Yep, I know, it kinda repeats everything in some ways, BUT I felt it was necessary to write. Basically, as I mentioned in the last chapter, I *really* was curious as to what Sybil had written in that letter that Mary discovered. I like to think it was something like this. And I wanted to provide a glimpse of what Mary saw...because it *will* play a part in a later chapter, when both Sybil and Mary "have it out" ;o) _

_Anyway, *thank you* for reading, and please, if you haven't read (because I have updated quite a bit in the last 24 hours) chapters 131 and 132 are newish as well, so check them out if you haven't read them yet! THANKS!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Thirty-Three<strong>

Dearest Mama, Papa, Mary, Edith, and Granny,

I'm sure this is a shock, coming into my room and discovering that I'm not there. I'm sure you have a great many questions…as well as some concerns. But let me assure you that I am alright, truly. And, let me assure you, that I am doing this of my own free will. This is _my_ choice; no one forced me.

The truth is…I have been in love with Tom Branson for a very long time. And I want to have a life with him…as his wife. So that is what we have done; by the time you read this, Tom and I will have gone to Gretna Green…and will be married.

I…I apologize if this upsets you, or if this hurts you. I did not mean to hurt any of you, or cause you distress. But…but the truth is I have to follow my heart. And so often, I feel I am being told that everything I want in life, be it working as a nurse to the man I love…is not possible. And so while yes, this is a drastic decision, it has been one that I did not suddenly make; this has been on my mind for quite some time…and now is the time to move forward. I do not wish to live a life full or regret, and I feel that is what will happen, if I deny my heart. I will waste away, forever wondering what might have been. And…and I respect myself too much to let that happen. And I love Tom too much to let him go. Perhaps this sounds strange to you, as you see him as simply "the family chauffeur", but Tom is so much more than that. Tom is my equal, in every way. We are so alike—two minds and two hearts that think and beat as one. If there is such a thing as "soul mates"…then Tom is that to me.

And he loves me. He does; you may scoff at my words, but it's true. He loves me and has loved me for a very long time, but has been nothing but a gentleman and a man of honor while waiting for me to make my decision. As I stated before, this is entirely my choice, of my own free will. I know my mind and I know my heart.

Papa, Mama; you both love each other. I know that, no one could deny that when they look upon you. You love each other so deeply, and that is how I feel for Tom and how he feels for me. That is what I want, as well as the life where I wake up every day and work and offer some sort of service to the world. I'm not afraid; I know things will be different, but I am honestly not afraid of the future—not when I have him with me.

After we are married…we will come back to Downton. I hope that you will choose to accept us…but I am prepared if you do not. We will then travel to Ireland, and make our home in Dublin. I will write you once I arrive…and pray that you will write to me. I…I love you all, very much, and I do not wish for this to be a final goodbye…but at the same time, I fear that if I do not do this, I will never have my chance that…that you will try to prevent me because you think I'm mad, when I'm not! I'm not…

I love you all.

And I am sorry if this upsets you. But please, please know…_I am happy_. _Tom_ makes me happy. _This decision_ makes me happy. And I truly do not think I can—no, _I know_ I will not be happier with any other decision. So I hope you will, in time…come to accept it.

Goodbye,

—Sybil

* * *

><p><em>Next...the "elopement"...and the aftermath<em>


	134. The Swan Inn

_LONG CHAPTER, AHOY! But it's worth it, I think :oP OK! BUCKLE DOWN PEOPLE, there be ANGST in these pages...but I am happy with how this chapter ends...and hopefully you too will like the note on which it goes! I'm dedicating this chapter to dear **Shana Rosee**, who was worried this chapter would be too depressing, so I strove to find a good note to leave it on...so you can thank HER for it :o)_

_Aftermath of the failed elopement to follow! Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Thirty-Four<strong>

He hadn't noticed it before. Of course he hadn't noticed it before, why ever would he? Why would he have noticed the freezing draft that was whistling through a tiny crack in the room's windowpane when Lady Sybil Crawley was lying on a bed just a few feet away from him? What man would notice something so trivial as that, when the woman you loved, who you desired more than any other, was lying down…on a bed…on the eve before your marriage?

But he noticed it now. Of course he noticed the draft now. Of course he felt the cold air seep through the windowpane and freeze everything within him, from his bones to his blood to his very heart.

Numb. That was exactly how he felt. Because the source of light and warmth in his life…had been taken from him.

…And he had let them.

Tom's jaw clenched and his eyes began to sting once again. He refused to sit down. He refused to go back to that chair that he had insisted just an hour ago would be his bed for the night, and he certainly had no intention of lying on that bed, despite the glorious temptation that the sheets contained her warmth and the pillow her scent. But no…he vowed the second she walked out of the room that he would not lay on any bed that she herself had once laid down upon…unless he was her husband.

And he wasn't that. And…he feared that after tonight, he may never be.

So instead, he was standing in a corner of the room, his body slumped and braced against the walls at the corner, his hands clenched into his fists as he fought the urge to scream, sob, and destroy the room in general. He was angry, he was hurt, and he was inconsolable. He hated Mary Crawley, he felt betrayed by Edith, and yes…there was even a part of him that was angry at Sybil too, he could not deny.

But the person he despised more than any other was himself. Because he had let them take her…

_I didn't fight hard enough_, he fumed at himself. _I stood there like an idiot, sulking because I could see how her sister's game of emotional manipulation was casting its spell, luring her back, making her think twice, causing her to doubt…and I didn't try to stop them! I didn't grab her, I didn't pull her back to me, I didn't even fall to my knees and beg, telling her over and over that I loved her, I just…stood there!_

Yes, of all the people in the world, he was the one to blame the most. She had needed his strength in that moment…and instead, he only showed weakness. And now he was paying the ultimate price. Now…she was gone. And all he had left was a drafty room in some inn that hugged the English and Scottish border and that was growing colder and colder by the second.

This was not how he had envisioned the night going. Indeed, nothing about this night had gone how he had thought it might. Now as he reflected back on everything that had happened, he realized how stupid he had been; stupid and ill-prepared. The journey to Gretna Green was not as easy as he had hoped, and he had ended up paying the price for his anxiety from the previous night, because he had barely slept a wink then, and now…on the road to freedom, he couldn't keep his eyes open. Yet another reason to hate himself. He had failed them.

His knuckles were turning white. If he clenched his jaw any tighter, he was sure it would break. But he didn't care. Because all the pain he could inflict upon himself physically would never measure up to the pain he felt in his chest as his heart broke, piece of piece, with every retreating footstep.

"Oh God…" he gasped, trying his hardest to swallow back the angry sob that was lodged in his throat, yearning for release. He hated the room, hated the sight of it, because just to his right was the bed where she had laid, and just to his left was the door where she had disappeared. He closed his eyes, hoping that would give him some relief, but when he did that, all he could see was her face…soft and pale, the slightest blush to her cheek…and her eyes; blue, gray, and beautiful…gazing into his own, offering him a silent goodbye…before turning and walking away.

The tears stung; truly, it felt as if someone had put a blade to his eyes. Everything hurt. There would be no peace for him, not in this room. Despite the brief, heated words he had exchanged with Lady Mary, Tom knew he couldn't stay there. And really, where else was he going to go? Like a dog, defeated in a fight, he would return to Downton, his tail between his legs and licking his wounds as he whimpered. And even though a voice in his head was screaming at him to take his Lordship's car and just drive until he reached the sea…and perhaps attempt to drive across it and not bother stopping until he reached his homeland's shores…he knew he could never do that. There would be no returning to Ireland…not without Sybil.

But now he found himself worrying if that would ever come to pass? All those fears and doubts that he thought had been slain thanks to Sybil's beautiful, sweet declaration to him the other night had returned, and with full force.

Maybe…maybe this was all it ever could be? Maybe…the battle was just too great and despite all his talk, change…just wasn't meant to happen, not in her world…not for people like him.

He lifted his head and leaned the back of his skull against the room's corner; his palms flattening against either wall, using what strength he had to push himself up and away. He took a deep breath—a deep, shaky breath—and proceeded to cross the room, one careful and slow step at a time, to retrieve his suitcase, begin repacking some of his things. He would be leaving the Swan Inn a great deal sooner than he had planned.

He hadn't unpacked much; just a few things, including a book and some toiletry items, simple things that one would never look at or think twice about. But as his fingers fell upon his razor…a bottle of aftershave…he found himself tensing, his body frozen, and not because of the draft. Had it really only been an hour ago? Certainly no more than two. Despite the battle he was raging inside himself, those memories returned, memories of Sybil sitting there on the edge of the bed, her small, soft fingers running over the items he had taken out, examining them and smiling, her giggle filling the room with her beauty. And those memories gave way to other ones, memories of their journey to the Swan Inn, of the conversation they had shared in the car…

…Of her boldly sitting up front, "demanding" that she sit next to her fiancée.

_Her fiancée._

_Was_ he still her fiancée? Or…had it all been a dream? A romantic illusion, that had come to an end and now he was being forced by the powers that be, to wake up and accept the harsh reality of the world in which they lived? Things hadn't ended well for Romeo and Juliet; was this to be their fate as well? The idea of drinking poison suddenly seemed very tempting, he could not deny…

_Too late_, he found himself thinking. _Love has already poisoned me._

* * *

><p><strong><em>EARLIER THAT DAY<br>Half-past six…_**

His trunk was packed, and already loaded. He hadn't arrived at Downton with much and he was leaving with even less, it seemed. Well, that wasn't entirely true. He was leaving with everything, because Sybil would be joining him in a matter of minutes.

He had been in the Servant's Hall, trying to calm his nerves with a cup of tea, and listening to the talk about Ethel, barging in and interrupting the Crawley family's luncheon, holding her son and telling the Bryants who had arrived that he was their grandchild, when Mr. Carson told everyone to make themselves ready, he was going to ring the dressing gong. Tom nearly knocked his cup over with how quickly he stood at those words.

"You alright, Mr. Branson?" Anna asked, noticing the way he seemed to jumping at the slightest sound.

He swallowed and forced a smile. "Aye, aye, just…it's a shame, for Ethel I mean."

Anna seemed to sympathize and nodded her head. She then left to go and see to Lady Mary and the others. Tom took a deep breath and took one last look around the Servant's Hall, watching as everyone made themselves busy. His eyes fell on Daisy, as she bustled from one room to another, and he remembered how William had asked him to look after her for him. Was he breaking William's promise now, by doing this and leaving? _You can't think like that,_ he quickly chastised. _You have your own life to live, too._ Still, he couldn't help but feel a little guilt…especially since he was not able to say goodbye, to her, or to his other friends.

He watched as both Anna and Bates ascended the stairs, ready to go and see to their employers. He would miss them both very much; Bates had been his first friend when he had arrived, and Anna had always shown him kindness, even when he was not at his best.

"Feeling better, Mr. Branson?"

He met the housekeeper's eyes, as she passed through the room. He had already made his excuses earlier, saying that his stomach was bothering him, and asked if Pratt could be in charge of driving Old Lady Grantham back and forth this evening. He had done his best to stay away from the house, and had only just come in thirty minutes ago with the excuse that a cup of Mrs. Patmore's peppermint tea would help calm his stomach. In truth, the excuse was partially so he would know when the dressing gong was rung…as well as to have one last look at all his friends. He was surprised in some ways at how much he would miss the place. But he always knew he would miss the people.

"The tea has helped," he said with a forced smile. "But I should go back and rest."

The housekeeper smiled and nodded her head, before reaching out and giving him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. "Aye, get some rest and feel better."

He was tempted suddenly to embrace the woman. She had, in some ways, been like a mother to him during his time here. He hadn't realized till just now how much he would miss Elsie Hughes, and or how deeply it hurt to have to lie to her like this. But she was, to him, like Lady Mary was to Sybil. Mrs. Hughes didn't know the specifics, but she had always had her suspicions about his feelings for Sybil (he would never forget her words to him at the garden party so many years ago). Yet despite that moment, he knew he would still miss her. "Goodbye, Mrs. Hughes," he whispered, to which she smiled in return, before turning on her heel and going about her duties once again.

His goodbyes, in a sense, had been made. It was time to go. Time to move forward.

He retreated back to his cottage and quickly changed his clothes. He debated about whether or not he should wear his better suit (the same one he wore for the Servant's Ball) only because he didn't want to ruin it on the drive to Gretna Green, but by that same token, he wasn't sure if he would have a chance to change again, once arriving in Scotland…and he had a feeling that as soon as they stepped foot into legendary city, changing his clothes would be the last thing on his mind. So put on his suit, wanting to look his best for his bride on their wedding day.

_Our wedding day._ He felt his stomach leap as he comprehended that again. Today was his wedding day. Or wedding night, actually. Oh God…his wedding day and wedding night were one and the same. Tom actually had to reach forward and grip a nearby table to keep his balance; the thought caused his knees to buckle.

He laid his livery out on the bed, and took one last look at the cottage, the place he had called home for all his years at Downton. Strangely, he found he would miss this as well.

His trunk had already been strapped to the car that they would take. That had perhaps been the most difficult thing he had done this entire day; decide which car to "borrow". He was taking some great risks. He could be accused of kidnapping and stealing, although he would only be guilty of the latter and only for a brief period of time. He had every intention of returning the car…when both he and Sybil returned to confront her family as husband and wife.

His stomach flipped again at the thought, only this time it wasn't a good feeling. Oh God, what would that be like? Returning and standing before them, revealing everything? Would they even let him in the house? Or onto the property? Would police be waiting for him as soon as he stepped into the village? Would they try to take Sybil away from him?

No. No one would be doing that, and Sybil wouldn't allow it. The law would be on their side—she would be his wife, and they would have a legally binding document that proved they were married…not to mention there was the entire issue of…well…of consummating the marriage, to seal it for good.

His knees began to buckle once again. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, silently counting in his head to calm his nerves.

No…they couldn't arrest him for marrying a woman of her own free will…but they _might_ try to arrest him for stealing a car. But what choice did they have? They needed to travel _tonight_—before anyone realized what had happened. Still, for this purpose, they were taking one of his Lordship's older and less pristine motors, which Tom had taken out of the garage very early that morning, before anyone had awoken, and that was now hidden on a small lane just beyond his cottage, practically in the forest surrounding the house.

Now was the waiting period.

Even though Sybil had told him she would come to him after the dressing gong was rung, he knew it wouldn't be immediate. She would wait until Anna came to help her get dressed, and even though he had no idea to the protocol of such things, he assumed that being the youngest sister meant she was the last to be visited. And even after she gave her message to Anna, she couldn't be seen sneaking down the corridor. She would have to wait until everyone was downstairs before she could make her move, as well as be careful that no member of staff saw her sneaking away with a suitcase. He would need to be patient, which in truth shouldn't be that difficult; he had waited over three years for an answer—longer when he calculated the time he had realized he was in love with her, and even longer than that, when he contemplated how deeply he found himself caring and falling over her before the realization struck. Waiting was something he was used to, waiting should not be that difficult…

And yet perhaps now, more than ever before, he was squirming with impatience. He kept checking the old pocket watch that had once been his father's and that his mother insisted he take. Thirty minutes had passed, and still there was no sign of her. The sky, which had already begun to darken by the time the dressing gong had rung, was completely black now. There were a few clouds in the sky, which was good; he didn't want the stars or the moon to give them away as they snuck through the forest to where he had parked the car. He tried not to pace, he tried to keep himself still and he tried to breathe—he especially tried to breathe, long, deep, calming breaths. _She'll be here_, he reassured himself. _She's coming, she just has to wait until the coast is clear, but she's coming_.

The kisses she had given him the previous evening were not kisses shared by a woman who didn't know her own mind…or her own heart. No, she had told him that she loved him, that she had loved him for a very long time, perhaps…perhaps as long as he had loved her. She had told him that she dreamt about him, that she had imagined the two of them dancing together at her coming out ball all those years ago. She had told him that she had been planning their elopement, something that had truly robbed him of speech! That proved to him perhaps more than anything else, that Sybil's feelings were honest and true. And then she told him all the things she wanted, the life she wanted to have with him, the work she wanted to do, the family she wanted to create…

The pictures she painted brought tears to his eyes; he wasn't sure he could take such beauty. He imagined her, coming home after a long shift at the hospital, groaning about an irate patient or a member of staff she didn't see eye to eye with. He would be there, waiting for her, and open his arms and welcome her home. He imagined easing her onto a chair, insisting that she put her feet on his lap, and helping remove her shoes. _"Allow me to play lady's maid, milady…"_ he would tease, and she would most likely try to swat him, before giggling. He would massage her feet for her, quite gladly, and feel his chest swell with pride as he listened to her moan in happiness. He would kiss her then—every day he would kiss her, he vowed that right then and now. For the rest of their lives, not a day would pass when he wouldn't kiss her. Even when they argued, even on days when the world seemed to be against them and all they would want to do is hurl insults at the sky…he would kiss her. Because she was his everything…and he was determined to remember that no matter how hard life could be at times, there was at least one good thing in his world, and would always and forever be, Sybil.

His ears suddenly perked up at the sound of footsteps. He pressed his body back into the garage's shadows, just in case it was someone else. After all, there was likelihood that it could be Pratt, on his way to take his Lordship's car to fetch Old Lady Grantham. His face paled then as I realized he hadn't contemplated the possibility that Sybil could run into Pratt. Oh Lord, what excuse could be made? What if he saw her carrying her suitcase? How would she explain that? And here he was, standing in the garage! He should have told her to come to his cottage, or perhaps to even meet in the woods, somewhere a little further away from the house, just in case—

"Tom?"

A long, shaky breath escaped his lungs as he heard her soft voice fill the void of the dark garage.

He stepped forward then, out of the shadows, and Sybil gave a little gasp, jumping slightly at seeing him emerge. "Oh gracious!"

He stopped then, even though he wanted nothing more than to enfold her in his arms. She was there. She HAD come! "Sorry," he murmured, stopping so as not to startle her further. But his sweet Sybil only let out a soft laugh and shook her head.

"No, no, I um…I just was surprised, that's all," she reassured. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting; I had to be sure—"

"I understand," he whispered, coming towards her again. "But Pratt may be coming at any second, so we should hurry."

She nodded her head, and looking most determined. "Lead the way," she whispered.

Yes, that was exactly what he should be doing. And yet he couldn't help it but stand there and stare at her. She was dressed simply, in her blue-gray coat (the same coat she had worn when he had taken her to York—this was a much happier affair to see her in that coat) and she wore that little hat of hers, the hat she always seemed to travel in, and in her hands was her suitcase…and it suddenly struck him, there, in that moment…that his bride was standing before him.

His bride.

"Tom?" Sybil stared up at him, looking confused. One moment she was prepared to go, to follow his lead to the car, and now she was looking up at him, her eyes growing wider as he drew closer. "Tom? Is something wrong? I—"

He had to kiss her. It had been far too long since their last kiss, and now that he had been blessed with the freedom to express his love in this age-old fashion, he couldn't get enough. His hands cupped her face, his fingers running over the smooth softness of her cheeks, feeling the skin grow warm as his lips played over hers, and he couldn't help but groan as her lips parted…and her tongue came forward to greet his.

"Oh Sybil…"

"Tom," she gasped, blushing deeply and looking rather unsure on what to say next. But it was clear that she had enjoyed his greeting. "As much as I would like to stand here and do more of that…" she murmured, a soft giggle in her voice. "Shouldn't we…?"

He shook his head, hoping perhaps that some of the blood would rush back to his brain. "Sorry, love…" he apologized, his own face flushing.

She giggled. "Never apologize for kissing me," she whispered, leaning up on her tip toes and brushing her lips sweetly against his, but pulling back before his passions got the better of him.

"You're right," he said with some resolution, taking her suitcase in one hand, and taking her own hand in the other. "Besides, I can kiss you more, later."

Sybil seemed to tremble when the words left his lips, and he couldn't help but grin as he saw her blush glow even brighter, despite the darkness around them. With a squeeze to her hand, he led the way, taking her through the wooded grove beyond his cottage, having cleared some of the brush away so it would be easier to travel through in the dark. He had so many questions he wanted to ask, so many things he wanted to say…but he decided to wait until they had reached the car, and had several miles between themselves and Downton.

Finally, they came upon it. "Get inside, love," Tom whispered, taking her suitcase and quickly strapping it to the back, atop his own trunk. He couldn't help but wonder what was inside. It wasn't a very big suitcase, and it wasn't very heavy either. Was she choosing to leave a great deal of her possessions behind? Or was she hoping that her family would accept them upon their return…and allow her to pack more then? Well, they would cross that bridge when they came to it. Now was not the time to dwell on such things. First thing was first; they needed to get to Scotland and then they needed to find a place to marry them.

He came around to the front of the car…and chuckled upon seeing his future wife sitting there up front. "Don't you think you would be more comfortable in the back?"

She shook her head. "Equality begins when a man and woman can sit side by side in the front of a motor," she said with a bit of a smug smile.

Tom lifted a brow. "That sounds like a quote. Who said that?"

"Me," she said with a slight poke of her tongue, before giggling. Tom chuckled and climbed up into the car. He wasn't going to press the issue; in truth, he was hoping for this. He remembered their one brief encounter, when he drove from the garage to the front of the house to take the Dowager Countess back, and Sybil had decided to "ride up front" with him. She had laughed then, and gasped at some of the turns he had made. He remembered loving the feel of her practically pressed to his side…and every time he drove the car, especially if Sybil was in it, he yearned for that feeling all over again.

"Alright," Tom settled himself behind the wheel. "But I warn you, it can get a little cold up front."

Sybil shook her head. "I can assure you, Branson, I will not even notice the chill."

He grinned, liking her words, and the meaning behind them, very much. Still, he chose to play along. "Oh? And why is that, milady?"

She leaned forward then and lifted her face to his, her lips just stopping half an inch away. "Because I'll have my fiancée to me warm."

Oh God. He looked at her lips, so full and sweet and aching to be kissed. This was dangerous; they were away from the house, alone in the dark, no one knew anything of their whereabouts, and now…that fantasy of his that had been haunting him for years was on the precipice of coming true—the two of them, alone…in a car.

"Well?" she asked, looking so sweet, innocent, cheeky, and wicked all at the same time. Did she have any idea the power she could hold over a man? "Are we ready to travel?"

"Sorry," he groaned, shaking his head again and starting the car. Sybil bit her lip to keep her giggles at bay, and Tom eyed her as the engine came to life. Without warning he did what he had always wanted to do; put his arm around her and pulled her against him. Sybil gasped but grinned at the gesture, and instantly molded her body to his side, making a little nest for herself in the crook of his arm. It was heavenly. "To Scotland!" he said with a grin, as he released the break lever, and then began to pull the car away from its hiding place.

They remained silent as they drove away from the house…and then through the village. Tom was careful to take roads that he knew would not have a great deal of pedestrians out and about, wanting to avoid any stares, and certainly wanting to avoid either of them being spotted by any of the villagers. It wasn't until they were in the country, the lights of Downton Village beginning to fade behind them, that Sybil did something he had not expected or been prepared for.

"WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound! "Sybil! Are you—?"

"WE'RE FREE!" she practically shouted to the world, lifting her hands up into the air and grinning as the wind hit her in the face.

_Not quite, but almost!_ He would feel a great deal better after they were married…and on a boat heading for Ireland. Still…her joy was infectious, and he found himself laughing as she threw her head back and released another shout.

"Careful love!" he laughed, trying to sound stern. "We don't want to draw attention to ourselves! Even if we are out in the country, the next village—"

"Shout with me Tom! Please, just this once and then I promise, I'll be as quiet as church mouse; you won't hear another peep from me this whole evening."

_Oh please, not this whole evening_. Indeed, there would be a time later when he hoped silence would be the last thing to fill their room.

Still…what harm could there be? "Alright," he laughed. "One shout, but then we'll have to be quiet for a little while as we pass through other villages."

"Yes, yes, of course," Sybil groaned, more for show than for any other purpose.

He laughed. "Alright, what are we shouting?"

She grinned and threw her head back. "I LOOOOOVE YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOU!"

His laugh became a roar. Oh Lord, how could he resist? "AND I LOOOOOOOVE YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOU!" he shouted.

Somewhere in the distance Tom swore he heard some dogs howling, but he didn't care. They may not be entirely free yet, but they were certainly free to tell each other to the world…that they, the lady and the chauffeur, loved each other.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Sometime before midnight…<em>**

Their "escape" from Downton had gone so well, Tom should have been prepared when things began to go the other way.

At one point the engine began to make a strange, clunking sound, before finally stalling. He bit back a curse and pulled over to the side of the road, removing his jacket and trying to be very careful about not getting any oil on his suit as he opened the bonnet to check the engine. He muttered his apologies, but Sybil didn't seem to mind—in fact, despite it all, she was smiling and watching him as he worked. She even commented out of nowhere, "You have beautiful hands…"

Tom felt his cheeks darken at her words. That was the last word he would ever have used to describe his hands.

"I always liked watching you work in the garage," she continued. "Sometimes…I would lose my train of thought…because I was too busy admiring your hands…and your forearms…"

Good God in heaven! Was this happening? He turned to look at her, his eyes wide and his face clearly wearing a look of surprise at her revelation. "R-r-really?" he stuttered.

She giggled, her own cheeks darkening a sweet color, and nodded her head. "It's true…you have no idea, Tom Branson, the effects a man like you can have on a girl of seventeen."

He practically banged his head on the lid of the bonnet at her words. Seventeen. Had she been admiring him—that long? It shouldn't have been a surprise; after all, he was certain he had been admiring her for the same length of time. It was just…so strange, how now, after all these years, they were being so open and confessing their feelings to one another.

He quickly finished his task, and climbed back into the car. Sybil grinned and once again resituated herself at his side, her hands coming up to wrap around his arm as he started the car, and thankfully, the engine groaned back to life. He could relate with that sound, it was exactly the sort his mind and body were making at Sybil's sweet revelations.

The journey continued, but that had not been the last of their troubles. The engine seemed to have behaved itself, but at one point they had gotten turned around, and had to retrace their route…and then the sudden wave of tiredness began to hit.

"Tom?" she murmured, looking up at him. He had been blinking his eyes a great deal, and giving little shakes to his head. _No, I will not let this happen. Push on, push through!_ They couldn't be that far away from Scotland.

"I'm fine…" he assured, doing his best to fight the yawn that threatened to expose itself. "Please…tell me about the luncheon you experienced earlier; the one with the Bryant's." He was hopeful that the story would do the trick in keeping him focused and awake.

Sybil sighed wearily and repeated the events that had taken place. She told him about Major Bryant's parents, how horrid Mr. Bryant had been (he wasn't too surprised to learn this, considering how horrid his son was), and how poor Ethel had burst into the dining room, holding a child and declaring to both Mr. and Mrs. Bryant that the boy was their grandson! "Did you know that?" she asked.

Tom sighed. "I didn't know the details—and what I learned was completely by accident. Do you remember when Major Bryant visited Downton last?" He then revealed how he had overheard Mrs. Hughes talking to the major, gathering that yes, Major Bryant did indeed have a part to play in Ethel's dismissal, and that the major was aware that Ethel had had a child, but wanted no part in it. He then told her how he had "taught the man a lesson", and she gasped when she realized that the injured hands she had bandaged for him that day, had been caused from said "lesson".

"Oh, I…I…" she fumed, struggling to put her thoughts into words. "I swear, if…if the man hadn't died, I would be sorely tempted to…to…to demand that you take me to wherever he was so that _I_ could teach him _a lesson_, too!"

Tom couldn't help but smile at her righteous fury. "I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy; I've seen what your fist can do."

She rolled her eyes, but the humor between them in that moment disappeared, and he knew why. "Poor Ethel…" she sighed. "I…I never really knew her that well," she confessed. "And…while I knew that Major Bryant was 'popular' with some of the nurses, I never once suspected that he was capable of…of such…of such villainy!" she shook her head, looking rather ashamed at herself. "I should have been paying more attention—"

"Don't blame yourself, love," he tried to assure. "You were busy overseeing hundreds of patients, both at the house and the hospital. If anyone should blame themselves, it's me; I had an inkling something was happening…but…I didn't say anything to Mrs. Hughes when I had the chance," he sighed. "Anyway, none of that will help Ethel now, and from what you told me about Mr. Bryant's reaction, it sounds like she's going to need all the help she can get."

They drove on, and for a brief moment, thanks to the conversation, Tom had found some new energy. But once again, a wave of tiredness fell upon him, and he was blinking and shaking his head to keep himself alert.

"Tom, you're tired…"

"I'm fine," he lied. "I'm perfectly awake."

"No, you're not fine, I can tell." Her voice was full of concern, but Tom didn't want to give in. He wanted to get them to Gretna Green, he wanted to hold her hand and murmur vows to her, vows to love and cherish her for the rest of his life, through all the ups and downs that would come their way. And he certainly didn't want to lay his head down on a pillow…unless Sybil was sharing it with him, as his wife.

"We can't be that much further away—"

"It will do neither of us any good if we're lying in a ditch," she chastised. "And I refuse to bury my husband before I am married to him!"

He couldn't deny, her words brought a smile to his face. And she was probably right—no, he _knew_ she was right, he knew he should stop the car and get some rest, at least for a few hours. He just didn't like the idea of prolonging their journey. Yet he wasn't sure how much further they had to travel, having never gone to Gretna Green before, and he had swerved just a little (thankfully they were the only car on the road)…but if anything happened to Sybil all on account of his stubbornness…

"Alright," he conceded. They would stop…although where? It was open countryside on either side of them, the car would be open and exposed to any late-night travelers that passed them by…and he didn't want to get into any altercations with a thief…or police. And despite her beautiful words earlier about how he was keeping her warm, he had notice Sybil shiver a little; no, they needed to find proper shelter, he would not have her sleep outside or in a cold car. "We'll look for an inn in the next village," he promised.

_And then what? Once you find this inn, then what will you do?_

Tom swallowed the lump in his throat; he hadn't thought about that. Naturally, he thought they would be married before retiring to a room. Oh God—what would he say to the innkeeper? At least he wasn't wearing his livery, that wouldn't cause a great deal of suspicion…but the closer and closer they got to the Scottish border, he had little doubt that the innkeeper would lift a questioning eyebrow at a young couple, seeking a room this late at night.

"There!" Sybil whispered, pointing ahead. Just on the outskirts of an approaching village, Tom could see a sign, decorated with the illustration of a large, graceful white bird. "The Swan Inn; we'll stop there."

"What if they have no rooms available?"

"Well, only one way to find out," she said, sounding most determined. Was she nervous at all? She didn't seem to be. She seemed perfectly calm about this whole matter! Perfectly calm that they were stopping at an inn, and registering as…as…

_ …As a married couple._

He swallowed again. Perhaps I can request a room and let her have it? I'll sleep in the car, and she can have the room! But even though the inn looked clean and orderly from the outside, Tom didn't like the idea of Sybil being alone in some strange place. And wouldn't that be even more suspicious? He giving her the room while he slept elsewhere? And knowing her she would argue with him if he dared make such a suggestion about sleeping in the car—

He had barely shifted the break lever into park, before she was on her feet and practically hopping out of the car. "Sybil?" But she simply smiled and went around to the back where he had strapped her suitcase, unfastening it herself and retrieving her things.

"Come along dearest!" she called out to him, her voice light and sing-song like. She was already heading towards the inn's door!

He scrambled out of the car, grabbing a small suitcase that he had put in the backseat, and quickly followed her. No sooner had he entered the inn, he saw Sybil standing there at the desk, a tired-looking man with silver hair and spectacles, coming out of a back room and looking at the both of them with shrewd eyes.

"I beg your pardon sir, but do you have any rooms available?" Sybil sweetly asked. "My husband and I are in need of one."

The innkeeper's eyes narrowed and then looked just over her shoulder at Tom, who was standing in the doorway, his jaw hanging open at the easy way in which Sybil addressed him as "her husband". _And she says it with such pride as well!_

"Your husband?" the innkeeper grumbled, his eyes moving back to Sybil, who continued to smile, completely at ease.

"Yes," Sybil said, her eyes meeting Tom's and holding his gaze. She smiled at him, and Tom felt his heart melt further at the unapologetic love he saw in her look. "And our names are Wentworth," she went on, turning back to the innkeeper, her charming smile now shining upon him.

The innkeeper eyed the both of them again. "Wentworth?"

"That's right," Tom said, clearing his throat and stepping forward. He looked at Sybil, who was trying her hardest not to grin, but whose eyes were twinkling as he spoke. "Anne and Fredrick."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Sometime well after midnight…<em>**

Sybil waited until the footsteps of the innkeeper had vanished down the corridor, before succumbing to a fit of giggles. "Oooohhh, that was a close one!" she gasped, trying to keep her voice down, not wanting to wake any other guests.

Tom nodded his head, putting both their suitcases down on a small table at the end of the bed.

…The end of the bed.

_Now will come your greatest test yet!_

"Wentworth, hmm?" he asked, turning and smiling at her. He had hoped by looking away from the bed, the temptation he was feeling would disappear. Not so much, as now he was looking at the greatest temptation of all, and she was standing but a few feet away from him…in a room of their own.

Sybil grinned. "Well, it seemed appropriate," she giggled with a blush. "After all…you proposed to me once…and…and I refused, but now…I am determined not to be persuaded further by anyone or anything other than my own heart."

As she spoke, she drew closer to him, and Tom had to swallow, his throat suddenly feeling very, very dry just then. She didn't stop until she was right by his side…and her arms were reaching out to him, moving around him, her fingers lacing just behind his neck. _Oh God, Sybil…do you have any idea…?_

"We should get some sleep!" his voice was practically a squeak. Although as soon as he said the words, he was regretting them, just slightly, because now came the extremely complicated question of…sleep where? And…_how?_

Upon arriving and entering the inn, Sybil had seemed light-hearted and mischievous; clearly she was enjoying herself, this little "play-acting" they were having, pretending to be husband and wife and fooling the innkeeper into giving them a room for the night. She was quite proud of herself, he gathered, by the way she had beamed when the innkeeper accepted their fib that they were two characters from a Jane Austen novel. But now…at the mention of sleep, it seemed to suddenly dawn on her that here they both were…just the two of them…in a room with a bed. "Oh…" her face darkened, and the light-hearted, mischievous mirth he had seen in her eyes quickly faded to reveal the innocent, blushing bride that she was. _Only she's not your bride—at least not in that sense! Not yet…_

"Go on, you take the bed," he insisted, putting on a smile to ease any nervousness she might suddenly be feeling. He prayed it would ease his own as well.

Her blush only grew. "Oh! But…" she glanced at the bed, and Tom couldn't deny it was delightful to watch the pink on her cheek spread further across her face, as well as darken in color more and more. "But…where will you…?"

He glanced at a chair next to the bed, and pointed to it. "That will suit me."

She frowned as her gaze fell to the chair. "It doesn't look very comfortable…"

"It's a great deal more comfortable than that car," he teased. _And the last thing I need right now is for _anything_ to feel like a bed…_

"You should take the—"

"If you're going to suggest that I take the bed while you sleep elsewhere, I'm going to have to stop you right now from proceeding any further."

She lifted a brow at this. "A woman can't sleep in a chair?"

He couldn't help but chuckle. "Sorry, love. I'm all for equal rights, but this is one area where I'm going to be 'old fashioned'."

She giggled a little and then looked back at the bed. Tom felt his breathing quicken as he watched her profile. Her eyes were running over the blankets and sheets…

"…What if…what if instead…?" her voice began to fade slightly, and Tom swore his heart stopped beating as he realized what she was suggesting. No…no, dear God, he wanted to, but no…he couldn't…

"My darling…"

She turned to look up at him, her eyes widening at the words. He had never spoken so…intimately with her before. He took both of her hands in his…and lifted them to his lips. He didn't dare kiss her in any other manner than this; otherwise his passions would get the better of him.

"When I lay my head beside yours…I want it to be when we truly are Mr. and Mrs. Branson…and not Anne and Fredrick Wentworth."

She blushed and looked down, but he reached forward, one hand cupping her cheek and lifting her chin until she was looking back up at him. God he wanted to kiss her…he wanted to drown in the depths of her eyes, in the love that he saw reflected there. He wanted to give in to all these temptations, to let the passion that had been kindling all these years to unleash itself in an inferno. He loved her, he wanted her, and he couldn't believe that after all this time, she was here, with him, of her own free will…wanting to become his wife. More than that, offering to share her bed with him! He recalled the words she had spoken last night, about how nothing further could take place until everything was settled. He understood and agreed, and yes, God knew it was enough to just be able to kiss her and hold her as he had done and was doing now. But looking into her eyes, he could see that determination faltering; he could see her working at ways to justify going back on her own words.

"_We're engaged, that's almost the same as being married?" _

_ "We're on our way to be married, our intentions are pure, why wait another night?"_

_ "Sharing a bed and sleeping side by side is not the same as…"_

No, but…he wondered if she had any idea how difficult it was, to keep his self-control tethered right now? She wasn't ignorant, but she was innocent. And he knew that if he found himself even sitting on a bed…with her so close…

"I suppose…" her voice murmured, drawing his attention back to her as she glanced one more time at the bed. "…Waiting just one more night won't hurt."

He couldn't help but sigh with relief. "We've gotten very good at waiting, you and I."

Her smile was small, and she nibbled on her lip a bit before looking back up at him. "Yes, we have…" she whispered. "Although…I confess," she looked up at him through hooded lashes. "I've discovered that I don't like waiting…"

_Oh God, Sybil, don't say these things to me!_ He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, doing everything in his power to suppress the groan in his throat, and then leaned close, pressing his lips to her forehead, before releasing her and making himself busy with his suitcase.

Sybil sighed and more or less plopped herself down on the edge of the bed as he opened his suitcase. He wasn't really sure what he was looking for—he simply wanted something to distract himself with, something to remind him that…this beautiful woman whom he had been dreaming about for the last five years (or more) was sitting, alone with him…and on a bed.

"May I?"

He realized that she was pointing to a book in his suitcase and numbly nodded his head, watching as she took the volume and smiled. "North and South?"

He couldn't help but feel his cheeks heat at the discovery. "I…I bought my own copy," he admitted.

She grinned and set the book aside. She then began to pick up a few items that he had removed from the suitcase, including a comb, shaving brush, and his razor.

"Careful, love, don't cut yourself," he murmured, nervously watching as she opened the straight razor.

She smiled as she carefully closed the razor and then ran her fingers over the shaving brush's bristles. "Will you shave in the morning?"

His brow furrowed at her question. "I...well, I normally shave in the morning, yes."

She grinned. "When you shave tomorrow, may I watch?"

His eyes widened. "You…want to watch me shave?"

She couldn't help but giggle and nodded her head. "It just…it seems like such an 'intimate' thing; very personal. Something that…only a wife would see."

God, he loved listening to her talk like this. She certainly seemed to have embraced the notion of being married! The question was if he could keep his hand from cutting himself, knowing that she was watching him as he shaved?

"Oh!" He looked back and saw that now she was holding a small bottle to her nose, and giggling as breathed in its scent. "Is this your—?"

"My aftershave," he answered, feeling his face redden again. Yes, there was indeed something very intimate about her going through his things like this. Not that he minded. He wondered…what was inside her suitcase?

"I love it," Sybil grinned, closing the bottle. "Now I know where part of that delicious scent comes from."

_Delicious?_ He felt his knees tremble at her words. She thought he smelled…delicious? He swallowed and began to wonder what other things made up his own, personal scent that she found so…mouthwatering.

He gave his head a shake; now was not the time to think such things. Later, after they were married, when he had her in bed—_with him_—and while they were basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking, then he would ask her what other things she smelled when she—

_Basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking…_

He needed to sit down. _Now_.

"We should both get some sleep," he squeaked, trying to cover it up with a cough, as if clearing his throat. He turned his back to her and removed his jacket. _But that will be all. I won't even remove my shoes. By keeping them on I'll be reminded that we still have a journey to make, one that we should take, quickly._ Also, his shoes would remind him that he needed to stay out of her bed.

He hung his jacket on a peg near the door, just next to Sybil's coat and hat, but when he turned back to face her and the chair, his stared…his eyes wide and his heart lodged somewhere between his chest and throat…as he saw her sitting there, on the edge of the bed, her fingers at work in her scalp, as she removed the pins that held her glorious brunette tresses in place. _Intimate acts, indeed. She's letting her hair down…just the sort of thing a wife would do, in front of her husband…_

A hiss escaped Sybil's lips, followed by a frown as she tugged on one stubborn pin. "Here," he stepped forward, before she had a chance to respond. "Let me…"

A nervous giggle seemed to escape her throat as he carefully removed the offending pin…and then began to remove the others that still remained.

"You are a man of many hidden talents, Mr. Branson…" she murmured with a blush and a giggle.

He couldn't help but grin. "I told you I wouldn't always be a chauffeur," he teased. "Perhaps I can find a job as a lady's maid?"

She made a noise that was clearly a protest. It only made him chuckle all the more. He had removed the last pin, but instead of stepping away, allowing her to thread her fingers through her hair and bring it down around her shoulders…he found his own fingers doing just that; threading through the curls and tresses…groaning as he watched the beautiful brown mass tumble down and cover the back of her neck.

"Tom?"

She was lifting her head to look up at him, and he realized just then how something so innocent as helping her with her hair could be so dangerous…and so seductive.

"Sorry," he apologized, removing his fingers and quickly taking a seat in the chair. Best to move it away just a little from the bed.

"It's alright," she whispered, smiling at him through lowered lashes, as her fingers made themselves busy, braiding her hair and tying it in the back. "It's only fair, after all; you seeing me with my hair down and me seeing your shaving things…"

Was it possible to love her even more? Just when he thought his heart was filled to the brim, she would say something as sweet as that, and it would overflow.

"You're still wearing your shoes," she said, taking notice of his feet.

"So we'll be ready to travel, when the time comes," he explained.

She nodded her head. "Yes, very smart," she murmured. With her hair braided, she sat there for a moment…a strange silence falling over the room. "I…I suppose…"

"Aye," he whispered, settling into his chair. The question now became, despite all the effort they had made to stop at the inn…would he be able to fall asleep? She was so close…so close that if he reached out, he could touch her…

"You need a blanket," she murmured, reaching for one on the bed. "There are two here."

He frowned slightly. "Will you be warm enough, love?"

"Of course!" she smiled at him as she handed him the blanket. Then, that mischievous little twinkle returned to her eyes once more. "And if I do feel chilled…I can always share your chair with you…"

She giggled then at his groan, and climbed under her own blankets, still fully clothed…and much to his surprise, still with own shoes on. Her eyes must have noticed where he was looking, and she smiled up at him and explained, "So we'll be ready to travel when the time comes."

He couldn't help but chuckle, and watched as she reached to the lamp by the bedside and gave it a small click, causing the room to be enveloped in darkness, while he settled her offered blanket around his body.

Silence filled the room then. But he could tell by the way they were both breathing that neither one of them had fallen asleep.

"Tom?" she whispered after a few minutes of silence.

"What's wrong?" he asked, instantly panicking. "Is there something wrong with the bed?"

He regretted the question as soon as it left his lips, because immediately a voice began screaming that yes, something was wrong with the bed…he wasn't in it with her!

"No…" Sybil reassured…and he could hear that she was trying very hard to suppress her laughter, no doubt thinking the same thing. "No, I just…"

Even though he couldn't see what was in front of him…he knew what she was doing, and he too reached forward…and found her hand in the darkness.

"This isn't how I had thought our evening would go…" she confessed.

No, it wasn't how he had thought it would go, either. Was she having second thoughts? Misgivings? Were these little hiccups in their journey, from the engine stalling to his sudden wave of tiredness, forcing them to stop for the night…signs that something wasn't right?

"But I'm glad for it, all the same," she finished, before squeezing his hand.

Tom felt his heart lift at her words. "Really?"

He couldn't see her smile…but he could imagine it; he could also hear it in her voice. "Yes," she whispered. "And I would do it all over again, even if I knew it would be like this."

He closed his eyes…and felt a deep calm wash over him, perhaps for the first time since their journey had begun.

"I love you…" she whispered.

"I love you too," he answered.

They both lay like that for a long while, silence filling the room again, but their hands still joined, his thumb running over the back of her knuckles, her fingers softly squeezing his. No, their wedding night had not gone as he had hoped, but still…here they were, side by side, as they were always meant to be.

Eventually they released each other's fingers, and Tom listened as her breathing began a soft, even sound. He bit his lip to keep from chuckling as a tiny snore escaped her nose. God, he even loved her for that. This would be how he would fall asleep every night, listening to her breathing, listening to those little snores; they would be the sweetest music in his ears. The only difference would be that each night after this one, he would be lying beside her, holding her, cradling her against him, his body wrapped around her own in some way, perhaps their legs and feet entangled—

His eyes had just managed to drift shut…when he heard the rush of footsteps coming up the stairs and down the corridor to their door.

* * *

><p><strong><em>THE PRESENT…<em>**

Tom took a deep breath, looking at his reflection in the small mirror that hung on a nearby wall. His eyes looked dry, but the scars of his tears still remained on his cheeks. He didn't care. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered but her…and he had let them take her away.

Despite the fact that he felt even more exhausted than before, he was more determined now than ever to leave the Swan Inn and never look back. He put on his jacket, closed his suitcase…and without even a parting glance, left the room and returned to the innkeeper's desk to pay for his stay, a stay that Lady Mary had oh so graciously offered to pay for herself. His teeth clenched at the memory of that brief conversation.

The inn was extremely quiet. No doubt everyone, including the innkeeper, had gone to bed. Perhaps he could just the money on the desk, hidden under the ledger with a note, and scratch "Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth" off the list.

He was digging the money out of his pocket, when he heard footsteps coming from a backroom; footsteps and…a woman's voice? Yes, a woman's voice…cooing softly.

Just then, the owner of that voice emerged from a backroom, holding a small, sleeping bundle to her shoulder, her hand cupping the child's head as she cooed soothing words to it. "Oh!" she looked up and met his eyes, startled at the sight of him.

"Sorry!" Tom apologized. "I was just going to leave some money for my room…and slip out."

Judging from the way the woman was dressed, and from the rooms she had emerged, he could only assume she was the innkeeper's wife. She didn't look to be that much older than himself. She had long black hair, braided down her back, and dark brown eyes, like those of Lady Mary's. She frowned at his words and quickly approached the desk. "Is everything alright, sir?"

"Aye, everything's fine," he lied. "Just…I need to be somewhere very early, and…wanted to get a head start."

She shrugged her shoulders at this and took out the ledger for him to cross his name. Tom gazed at the false identities that both he and Sybil had given for one another and felt his emotion catch in his throat once more. Without a word, he scratched a line through the signatures and handed the woman, who was still cradling the sleeping child, the amount he owed.

As she took the money she looked up at him, and stared at him in such a way that it unnerved him a bit.

"Forgive me, sir, but…are you Irish by any chance?"

He was surprised by the question, and despite his better judgment, nodded his head. What harm could there be in admitting this much? It would be nice to tell the truth for once after an evening like this.

The woman seemed to smile at this, and even though Tom didn't know her, he could see…something, reflect in her eyes. Like…an old memory.

"Forgive me, I only ask because…well…because you remind me of someone I used to know."

His eyebrows lifted at this, and even though he had paid and had every right to simply walk out (and should) he found himself lingering for some strange reason. "Who?"

She blushed then. "Oh, an old beau of mine," she explained. "Long ago, before the War; before I met my husband and came to live up here."

An old beau? A strange feeling was washing over him as he listened to her words. Surely…it couldn't be…

"We worked in service together," she continued. "In Devon. I was a housemaid and he was a chauffeur."

No…it wasn't possible!

"Anyway, forgive me for rambling on so, just…something about the way you spoke reminded me of him—Lord, what a memory! It's been so long since I thought about dear Martin—"

"Branson?" he interrupted, his eyes boring into hers, searching for answers. It seemed so impossible…but here she was, standing before him, the woman whom Martin had told him about, long ago in his letters. _Rachel…_

She gasped and stared back at him in utter surprise. "That's right—oh goodness, do you know him?"

His face paled at her question. "I…" he looked down, for fear that his eyes would give too much away. "I…I knew someone by that name," he lied. "In Dublin; I…I went to school with a Branson."

"Oh, I see…" she said with a sigh. "He returned to Ireland, just after the War was announced. Can't say I blame him, really," she sighed again and tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear, while still cradling the sleeping child. "I thought…" she blushed and smiled to herself. "I thought he was going to propose to me at one point…but it's just as well," she murmured sadly. "My family would never have allowed me to marry a Catholic."

_At least you were both of the same background, even if you came from different denominations and countries_. Indeed, the differences between his and Sybil's background, made their religious upbringing and cultural identity seem like nothing in comparison.

"Did you know a Tom Branson?"

Tom's eyes widened at this question. "W-w-what?" he stammered.

"Well, since you went to school with a Branson, I thought perhaps it was possible you knew a man by that name."

"W-w-why?" he asked, his throat feeling very dry all of a sudden.

She sighed and shifted the child from one shoulder to another. "Oh, Martin talked about his cousin a great deal—Tom, being his cousin," she explained. "They were very close; that I do remember. Always exchanging letters."

Tom felt his throat tighten at her words, and that sting return to his eyes once again. "Like brothers," he whispered.

She didn't seem to catch his words, or any deeper meaning behind them. "I don't know the details, but apparently his cousin had…well…" she leaned close, as if the room were filled with people and she was about to share with him the biggest piece of gossip the world had ever known. "Apparently his cousin had fallen in love with a _Lady!"_

Tom had to grip the table to keep his balance. Good God, how much had Martin told this woman?

"And not just any lady, but the daughter of his employer!" she whispered.

"Amazing," he murmured, not sure what to say. Had Martin told anyone else? Did they all have a good laugh at his expense? Did they pity him, thinking him a mad fool for letting his heart fall for someone so far above him?

"I don't know what happened, if anything happened," she sighed, leaning back to her original posture. "Martin left before I learned anything further. But…despite his worry for his cousin, as I'm sure you can understand…he did say that all that mattered was Tom's happiness…even if that did mean running away with some nobleman's daughter."

Tom stared at her, the last of her words soaking through. The last conversation he had had with Martin had not been the most pleasant. Martin never held back that he thought him mad for staying in England, simply so he could be close to a woman who would never be his; the world just didn't allow such things. And yet…as he looked at this woman, Martin's Rachel, and listened to her speak…he knew, despite the fact that this was their first and most likely only meeting…he knew she was telling him the truth.

Martin wanted him to be happy. Even if that meant pining the rest of his days for Sybil, Martin simply wanted him to be _happy_.

_Please…please give me some sort of sign? I'll know it when it happens…_

The words he had written to his cousin washed over him, and he felt a chill run down his spine. But it was not a chill of foreboding. But rather…the blessing he had been seeking.

"Thank you," Tom murmured to the woman, the emotion swelling in his chest and throat. He smiled at her and the sleeping baby, despite the tears that he could feel stinging his eyes, but he didn't care. He just grinned and took her free hand, giving it a hearty shake. "Thank you," he murmured again.

She seemed surprised, but returned the shake. "You're welcome…?" she replied, unsure what else to say. "Are you going now, then?"

"Aye," he answered, picking up his suitcase and heading out the door, giving the woman one last smile, before turning and leaving the Swan Inn for good.

He had his fiancée to find…


	135. Beneath the Willow Tree

_Oh wow, THANKS SO MUCH for all the wonderful reviews from the last chapter! I'm really glad you were able to enjoy it, despite the scene, but I did try to end it on a hopeful note...and now we have some *lovely* "aftermath" so to speak, from Sybil's perspective. This was a rather emotional chapter to write, I even had to pause for a few moments because it was getting to me now and then...but I am pleased with it and I hope you will be too. I hope it will help satisfy some much needed FLUFF FEELS! Thanks again, as always, for reading!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Thirty-Five<strong>

Numb.

That's what she felt. Completely, utterly numb…both inside and out.

She also felt exhausted, but the sort of exhaustion that's beyond tiredness, where a person feels too exhausted to sleep. All anyone can do in a moment like this is simply…sit. And that was what she was doing, sitting in a chair, her robe wrapped tightly around her body, her arms hugging herself, trying desperately to keep some warmth to her skin, to her bones…

But it was no use. This was the sort of cold that no blanket, no matter how thick, could keep from seeping in…

Her eyes were red and raw. In truth, they hurt. She hadn't looked in a mirror since returning, but she could only imagine how ugly she appeared, and how swollen, pink, and puffy her eyes and cheeks were. Was it possible for there to be any tears left? They still seemed to come; only they flowed silently down her cheeks…like raindrops on a windowpane. And just like the rest of her, they felt cold. _Bitterly_ cold…

_I shouldn't have left…_

The thought was the only thought that occupied her mind. Even though it was true, that she hated deceit, that she hated lying to the people she loved, and that the voice that had been haunting her the previous night, that had been reprimanding her for being the coward and not even trying to stand up to her family and declare her feelings about the man she loved and the life she wanted…even though _all_ of those things rang true when her sisters had found her…

She shouldn't have left. Or, she shouldn't have left…_without him._

She sucked in a breath then. A shiver ran through her body, and she hugged herself even tighter.

Her lips still burned from kissing his cheek—her farewell kiss, before leaving.

"Oh God…" she moaned, closing her eyes and wincing as the cold, stinging tears burned the back of her eyelids at the memory of his eyes—the pain that she saw, the pain and the…the betrayal. Yes, that was what she had done, she had betrayed him! She had broken his trust—_again!_ How many times had she broken his heart? How many times had she given him hope, only to take it away and dash it at his feet? How many times had they gone through this dance? They had been so close…_so close_ to their freedom…

And it was all her fault this had happened.

_I shouldn't have said anything._ Yes, it was her hand that had betrayed them, her hand that had given them away. Perhaps if she hadn't left the note, they wouldn't have come after her? They wouldn't have known where to look?

No, the note was needed. They would have realized Tom was missing and would have assumed the worst, that he had kidnapped her, that she had no part in this, that this wasn't her decision. That note was not only a chance to absolve Tom, but also to state to the world her feelings…

…A statement she _should_ have made to their faces.

Yes…yes, this was indeed, all her fault. This entire time, she had taken the coward's way out. She had let fear rule her every step. Even though she had admitted to herself, so many months ago—years, actually—that she was in love with Tom, she didn't confront him, she didn't tell him. Nor did she go and speak her fears, her worries, and her anxieties to him. She kept them all locked away inside. Yes, she had written to Gwen and to Susan, and their letters had indeed been a great help, but…why hadn't she said anything to Tom? He was her best friend! Even after Tom became her husband, he would _always_ be "Branson, her best friend".

…Oh Lord, _would he_ still become her husband?

She swallowed the sob that was lodged in her throat. She feared that question more than any other. _How he must hate me,_ she thought. _How he must despise me!_ Would anyone blame him if he decided to take the car, and drive all the way to Liverpool, boarding the first boat bound for Ireland? And why not? He was packed, he was prepared; she really wasn't worth the bother. She didn't deserve a man like him—she didn't deserve someone who had told her, despite all the grief she had given him over the years, that he would "wait forever" for her.

The sob escaped. Sybil clutched a hand over her mouth, and squeezed her eyes tight, the tears running down her cheeks once more, as she tried to swallow it back. _I've lost him! Oh God, I've lost him, I know I have!_ Memories of his eyes filled her vision once again; that pained expression as she was led away by her sisters…as she _let_ them lead her away. _I should have fought! I should have demanded that he come back with me! I should have taken his hand in mine and told him, "We'll go back now, tell my parents everything; tell everyone everything! And then we'll go."_

But she hadn't done any of that. Once again, she played the part of a coward, letting another make her decision for her. _I'm a…a piss poor suffragette if I can't even make my own decisions! _She knew what she wanted, and yet…did she truly have the courage to take it? She thought she had; she thought by running away to Gretna Green was a bold and brave decision…but now she realized that the truly bold and brave thing would have been to defy what her sister had once said, and stand before her family and tell them about the choices she had made for herself. She doubted they would support her, in fact, she was fairly certain they wouldn't, hence why she had decided to sneak away like a naughty child.

_But I'm not a child; and I'm not ashamed of what I want in life…or the man I want to make that life with. _And yet her behavior…all of it…would suggest otherwise.

She sniffled and wiped at her nose, pulling her legs up onto the chair as best she could, trying her hardest to curl up into a ball, as more painful memories washed over her of the night.

_Anna was waiting downstairs, looking nervous. She had nearly tripped over herself at seeing the housemaid standing there. "Milady!" Anna gasped, and then looked to Edith, trying to find some sort of confirmation. Sybil felt her cheeks burn as she realized what that look was about. _

They want to know if Tom's "ruined" me! _Oh Lord, a part of her wished he had. Perhaps then they would have let the two of them continue on their journey? But no, Tom was far more of a gentleman than men like Major Bryant or Larry Grey. Tom had insisted on taking the chair; Tom wouldn't "bend the rules" that far, no matter how sorely he had been tempted (and she doubted she had been a great help for him in that sense). And it angered her; it truly, truly angered her that both Edith and Anna, two women who knew Tom well, would…would assume such things!_

"_My virtue hasn't been taken from me, if that is your concern," she had snapped, feeling very bitter in the midst of her pain. Anna paled at her words, and Edith even looked shocked. She was tempted to add, _"Even if I wanted him to!"_ but chose against it. Besides, Mary had just come down the stairs at that point. _

_Mary growled some sort of marching order, and both she and Edith, like two jailers, led her out of the Swan Inn, with Anna leading the way to the car they had traveled in. Sybil climbed into the back with Anna, while Mary and Edith took the front. Her tears began to fall as she gazed up at the front of the car…remembering how lovely and wonderful it had been to sit by his side, to feel his arm around her shoulders, to be pressed so close, to be like two equals—_

_And now here she was again…forced, once more, into her role as a "Lady"; backseat and all._

"_HOW COULD YOU, SYBIL?"_

_She jumped at Mary's sudden harsh question. Her sister's eyes were on fire as they glared back at her. _

"_HOW COULD YOU DO SUCH A THING? TO MAMA, PAPA, TO GRANNY! TO US!"_

_She swallowed and looked away, like an ashamed child._

"_YOU _PROMISED_ ME, SYBIL! _YOU PROMISED ME_ YOU WOULDN'T DO ANYTHING FOOLISH!"_

"_What?" Edith asked, looking confused. _

"_SHUT UP AND DRIVE!" Mary fumed, her glare returning to Sybil once again. _

"_Milady…" Anna tried to be calming voice. "This can wait until morning—"_

"_NO, ANNA, IT CANNOT!" Mary growled, leaning forward and actually grabbing hold of Sybil's chin, forcing her to look back at her. "How can you expect ANY of us to trust you, EVER AGAIN?"_

_She tried to shake her sister's fingers, but Mary had a hard, vice-like grip. _

"_Did you even, for once, think about anyone else? Did you think about how this would have broken Mama's heart? Or Papa's? It would have killed Granny, surely!"_

"_Mary—" Edith tried to intervene, but Mary continued._

"_Don't defend her!" Mary argued. "She doesn't deserve your defense, Edith, when her decision would have RUINED your chances at finding a husband!"_

_Sybil stared at her eldest sister with wide eyes, feeling as if Mary had slapped her across the face. No…she had never thought about how her actions would affect someone like Edith's prospects for future matrimony. Sybil wished her sister had slapped her, because such a horrible thought was far more painful than the sting of one's hand. _

"_Milady, please!" Anna reached forward and grabbed hold of Mary's wrist, a gesture Sybil had never seen the housemaid perform. Yet it seemed to do the trick, because Mary's fingers suddenly loosened…and her hand soon fell away. _

_Mary pulled her hand back…and then resumed her position in the car, as if this entire conversation hadn't even taken place. Sybil sat there, frozen, as the horrible numbing feeling began to wash over her. She tried to shrink down inside her coat, hugging it close and tight, turning her head silently to the window, and watching the darkened scenery pass with every yard. _

_The rest of the journey was silent. Which, in some ways was even louder, because the heated words that had been exchanged in the inn, and just now in the car, began to echo in her mind over and over._

_ And she didn't have any fight left in her right now. No…she was completely drained. There was only one person she wanted to scream at…but it was hard to scream at yourself without others thinking that you're mad._

_ She didn't know what time it was when they returned to Downton, although the journey back didn't seem to take as long as it had when it was just her and Tom. After parking the car, her sisters quietly helped her out, Anna now taking her suitcase, and leading her to the servant's entrance. "I'll take Lady Sybil to her room," Anna whispered, putting on a helpful smile for both Mary and Edith. Mary looked as if she wasn't ready to end their conversation yet, however she let out a sigh and muttered, "very well", before also muttering that when morning came, she would make up some excuse for their parents as to why she wasn't down at breakfast. _

_She didn't argue. The idea of doing anything seemed unwelcome. And she didn't bother arguing with her sister that she could give her own excuses. No, she just mutely nodded her head…and followed Anna up the servant's staircase to her room._

_ Anna stripped her of her coat and dress, unfastened her corset, and helped her put on her nightdress. She then went over to turn down the blankets, but Sybil murmured, "That's alright; you may go."_

_ "Are you sure, milady?" _

_She simply nodded her head, not even looking the other woman in the eyes. Yes, yes she was sure. She just wanted to be left alone. She slipped on her robe and went to sit down at her dressing table, where she normally sat to write in her diary. Only the diary was packed away…and she doubted she had the strength to sit and write._

_ "Milady…"_

_ "Please, Anna," she whispered, hugging the robe around her a little more. "Please just go."_

_ Anna opened her mouth to say something…but then closed it and nodded her head. "Goodnight, milady…" she simply whispered, before turning and shutting the door. Sybil waited to hear if the sound of a lock followed…but no such thing. No, she was not to be locked away like some prisoner…but what purpose could it have served? She had nowhere to go…her ticket…and her destination, were gone. And she had a horrible feeling she would never see him again._

_ The straw that broke the camel's back. _

She couldn't bear to sleep, or at the very least she couldn't bear to lie down on her bed. Even though it was a great deal larger than the bed she had just been sleeping in at the Swan Inn, and was great deal more luxurious, she knew she wouldn't be comfortable; not after spending a night (or part of a night) so close to the man she loved—so close that for a while, they could hold hands.

This hadn't been the first time she had thought about this since returning, and more tears began to well up and sting her eyes, before running down her cheeks.

"Oh Tom…" she whispered to herself in the darkness of the room. "I'm so sorry…I'm so, so sorry…"

She buried her face into body, her arms hugging her knees, her entire form curled and shaking as the sobs took hold once more. How long she sat like that, she wasn't sure. She wasn't even sure if she had somehow fallen asleep in that moment. All she did know was that when she lifted her face finally, and looked out the window across the room, she could see…in the distance horizon, a purplish hue in the sky. Even though the moon was still shining, having pierced its way through the clouds, she could tell that dawn was approaching, a dawn that she had meant to be her wedding day.

She disentangled herself from the chair, ignoring the ache of her muscles, and slowly rose to her feet, staggering slightly as she made her way across the room towards her window. For some reason, even though she felt completely numb, she wanted to feel the cold air of the early dawn on her skin.

She grasped the windowpane and pushed it open…and was greeted by an icy blast of late January air. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing the air to seep through her skin and chill her to the very core. It hurt, but at the same time, it gave her the opportunity to feel again. She released the breath she had been holding, and opened her eyes, watching as a cloud of heat escaped her mouth and floated away into the sky. Her eyes were now fixed on the horizon ahead, watching as the purple began to spread; it was going to be a sunny day, despite the black cloud that had fallen upon her.

Something moved.

Sybil felt a chill wash over her as another blast of wind blew across her tear-stained face, through her hair…and for some reason, it drew her eyes to the willow tree just below, watching as its brown branches, covered still with dead leafs, shook in the breeze…

…And slowly began to reveal a secret.

Sybil's hands gripped the edge of the window as she stared at the tree…her eyes intense and focused and widening as the wind continued to blow across the willow's branches…and slowly reveal a figure, standing there…gazing up at her.

Her heart leapt; in fact, she was sure it was trapped somewhere between her chest and her throat.

Her mouth opened…and a word was formed, even though no sound came out…

"Tom…?"

As if he had heard her…he took a step forward…and Sybil's hands flew to her mouth as she stared back at the intense blue-green eyes of the man she loved.

He was there.

He had come back.

And even though he hadn't said anything or made any sort of gesture, she knew…

He was beckoning for her.

Sybil turned, not even bothering to put on her slippers; she flew to the door and dashed down the corridor towards the servant's staircase. She didn't care if anyone saw her, she didn't care about anything anymore…except him. That familiar patio door had become a new best friend; she pushed it open and ran, ignoring the bitter cold earth beneath her bare feet, her hair and robe flying behind her with every step. As she approached the willow, her speed only increased. She couldn't see anymore, her tears were blinding her, but it didn't matter. She knew where the tree lay, and she knew he would be there, waiting for her.

And he was.

"TOM!" she cried as she came upon the tree. She leapt then, believing she would reach him faster if she actually could fly…

She never hit the ground.

Two arms, as strong as tree limbs themselves, caught her, enveloped her, and crushed her against him.

"Sybil…" he groaned, burying his nose in her hair, his hold on her only tightening with each passing second.

The tears she had shed before were nothing compared to the ones that she shed now. She sobbed and clung to him, her fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket, as if trying to absorb him into her very soul. She wept and she wept and she wept; she was shaking from her weeping and she was trying to speak at the same time, but it was impossible to form words! But despite the tears, despite the desperate way to which she clung to him, for fear that he would disappear or that this was all a dream—her heart was leaping with joy that he was there; that he had come back…and that he was holding her now, murmuring words in her ear, words that she didn't understand, but that sounded so beautiful, so tender, and yes…so loving.

She didn't deserve such words.

"I…I…" she tried to speak. "I…I'm sorry…"

"Sshhhh…" he whispered, one hand rising up to cradle her head, while the other remained locked around her waist, pressing her even closer.

She shook her head against his shoulder. "No, I am…" she gasped between sobs. "I'm so sorry, Tom, I'm so, so sorry!"

"Sybil—"

"I shouldn't have left, I shouldn't have left!" she cried. "I was weak, I was afraid, and I—"

His fingers were tangled in her hair, and he moved her head back just slightly, long enough for him to move close…and capture her protesting lips, silencing her apologies with a sweet kiss, one that caused Sybil to melt. All of his kisses seemed to have that effect on her.

It wasn't a demanding kiss, and even though they were both feeling waves of desperate passion roll through them, Tom's lips were gentle…and she responded to that gentleness, feeling herself calm down, feeling the inner rage and hatred that she had for herself begin to slowly drift away. Because despite everything that had gone wrong, he still loved her. That was what his kiss was telling her.

She whimpered when their lips finally parted. She never wanted such sweet contact to end.

Tom pressed his brow against hers, and the two of them simply held one another, their eyes closed, just breathing the other one in, just feeling the other one holding them, assuring them that despite their botched attempt at running away together, they still loved each other. Nothing had changed that, thank God.

"Silly girl," he softly chastised, causing Sybil's eyes to open and look up at him with surprise. He was actually smiling down at her, and kissed the tip of her nose. "You couldn't pause long enough to put something on your feet?"

Her cheeks flooded with heat and color, and for the first time since they had been alone together, she found herself smiling…and even laughing, just a little.

"I was afraid it was a mirage," she confessed, her arms tightening around his middle as she pressed her body even closer. "That if I didn't hurry, you would disappear."

"I'd find a way back to you," he vowed, before pressing his lips to her forehead. "Bet on me, remember?"

She giggled a little at his words, and she felt him chuckle against her body. It was a wonderful sound, so warm and rich. She snuggled herself even closer, and Tom murmured something again in that strange language that she didn't know but realized how much she loved listening to. "You must be freezing," he muttered after a moment.

Sybil's head was once again tucked under his chin, and she shook it upon hearing his words. "No, I'm not; this is the warmest I've been all night."

He sighed and rested his cheek atop her head. She loved the feeling. She just loved everything about him. Why had she been so foolish? Why had she let her fear rule her for so long? She could have been experiencing the wonderful sensation of being wrapped in Tom Branson's arms for years, if she had just allowed herself to—

"We should get you back inside before you freeze," he murmured.

No, no, she did not want to be parted from him, not yet. She shook her head and lifted it slightly so he could see her eyes. "I told you, I'm not cold—"

"Then before Daisy or one of the housemaids catches you out of bed," he glanced then to the horizon. The purple was giving way to an orangey pink. Dawn was quickly approaching.

She wanted to protest, she wanted to argue and fight, but…she knew he was right. She knew that part of the reason they were in this mess was because she hadn't been very practical, which was so strange since part of the reason it had taken her so long in giving him her answer was because she thought she was being practical, in checking and making sure that yes…she could do this, she could leave everything she knew behind…and put her trust in this man. He had told her the other night when they were in the garage that despite the years he had waited, he was glad because he knew now; he knew that it was nothing but the deepest love that was bringing her to him. Which was true; she was never surer about her love for Tom. And she was never more determined than now, to conquer her fears and let the truth be known.

"I'm ready," she whispered.

His brow furrowed at her words. "Ready?"

She nodded her head. "I'm ready to march into that house, right now…and tell everyone that I love you. To confront my family, to face their censure, to leave this very day for Dublin…even if that means never seeing them again," she whispered, the tears still flowing down her cheeks at the thought, but she meant it. Downton was her past; Tom was her future.

"Oh my darling…" he murmured, his accent thick and causing a tremble to run down her spine, just as it had earlier that night when they were alone in their room at the Swan Inn. She closed her eyes and leaned into his fingers, as she felt them cup her cheek. "I know this may sound strange," he murmured at last. "But…perhaps this is a blessing?"

Her eyes flew open then. A blessing? How on earth…?

"Hear me out," he explained, seeing the confusion on her face. "Do you remember that argument we had once…when we were in the car? I was taking you to the hospital, after Mr. Matthew had been injured…"

She did remember. "Before William…" she paused, the sad memory returning.

"Aye," Tom whispered, also remembering. "I was upset with you—I accused you of 'hiding your feelings'—"

"Yes, I remember," she answered, her face flushing with embarrassment as she recalled that argument. Tom had asked her if Mary was in love with Matthew and she had told him that she didn't want to talk about it. Part of that reason, though, was because she felt that the questions…and the accusations that followed had nothing to do with either Mary or Matthew…but a relationship much closer to their hearts. "I also remember slapping you," she murmured somewhat guiltily, to which Tom chuckled and nodded his head.

"Aye, that you did…can't say I didn't deserve it, though. But...do you remember what you said to me? After the slap," he clarified. "Because I do…and I remember the hope that it gave me…"

It was hard to imagine her giving him any sort of hope back then. While she had been aware of her feelings for Tom, and had finally admitted to herself that she loved him, she had still been struggling with whether or not she should act on those feelings.

His hand, the one that had been caressing her cheek, began to brush the fallen curls and stray wisps of hair that were blowing across her face. His eyes, his beautiful eyes, the color of pools and fountains, of spring rain, held hers as he spoke. "You said, what I was asking you demanded serious thought; that it wasn't something to be taken lightly. That _we_ deserved that."

She remembered now. She remembered grabbing his wrist and pulling him close to her, just as he had done so with her. She remembered shaking and trembling with anger, she remembered being shocked that she had slapped him, but before the guilt of that gesture had sunk in, she remembered unleashing her fury and saying those words. Yes…for a long time, it seemed, she had thought about the two of them as "we" and "us".

"Your words were wise then…and I think we need to look to their wisdom once again. You see, I think…I think we were both so…overwhelmed in our happiness that…that we didn't pause to think about the next steps that needed to be taken…"

_The next steps that needed to be taken._ No, no, she hadn't thought about that. She was just…so happy to finally be open with her feelings, that she all she could think about was starting their lives together, right then and there. She always related more to Elinor, in Sense and Sensibility, but last night, she had embraced her inner Marianne, and had thrown all sorts of caution to the wind. And it had only led to a night filled with tears.

She realized then that they had no plan, other than returning to Downton to announce their union. That was as far as she had thought things through. But what would happen after their announcement? How much money did they both have? Her father gave her an allowance for shopping and other such frivolous things, but she didn't have a great deal set aside. And Tom…he would have to dip into whatever savings he had, but again, how much was that? Was the money that the both of them had enough to purchase a room and meals for who knows how many nights until they could travel back to Ireland, boat tickets, and then upon arriving…a home of their own? It would be difficult, to be sure…even if they both had work lined upon arriving, but that wouldn't be the case, at least not for her. She would have to interview and answer advertisements, just like Gwen. She would have to prove to a hospital that even though she had been trained as an auxiliary nurse for the War, she was capable of hard work and willing to learn more, to perfect and strengthen her skills. And what of their home? She had imagined their Dublin flat many times, but she suddenly realized that despite the lessons Mrs. Patmore had given her…she really knew nothing about managing a home. She couldn't thrust all those duties upon Tom, it wouldn't be fair!

No…she had not paused to think about the next steps that needed to be taken…

She nibbled her bottom lip and looked up at him. "So…we should wait?" She couldn't help but make a bit of a face at the thought.

Tom chuckled then, before leaning close and kissing her forehead once more. "Oh my darling," he murmured against her skin. She was one to talk, she knew, when it came to waiting. Tom had clearly mastered the art of patience; she was still new at it. "Aye, we should wait—but not too long," he vowed.

She smiled at this and nodded her head. "Good; I know I'm not one to talk, but…I don't think I can make it through an entire day now, where I didn't get to kiss you."

His eyes widened at this, and she couldn't help but grin. She had surprised him, perhaps even shocked him a little. She liked that.

"Oh my darling…" he groaned, his lips now caressing the skin of her cheek. "God…you have no idea, do you? The affect you have…"

She bit her lip…and feeling ever so bold…pressed herself against him in such a way…that the evidence to what he had said was clearly…unavoidable. "Perhaps," she whispered, grinning against his mouth as he let out another groan, before kissing her. This time their kiss was a great deal more heated. This time the passion they felt for each other began to kindle once again, and it was Sybil who sought entrance to his mouth with her tongue, pleased when she heard the moan rise up in his throat as he granted her access, pleased that her kisses were able to give him as much pleasure as his gave to her.

"Oh Tom…" she moaned, her chest rising and falling in rapid pants, her body molded against his. She was suddenly reminded that she was standing before him in nothing but her robe and nightgown. A blush crept up her cheeks as she thought about how she had imagined wearing something so simple, and yet so intimate, on the morning after their wedding. They may not have been married last night…but she was standing before him now as a wife would stand before her husband. "How long do you think we will have to wait?"

He sighed, leaning his forehead against hers, once again. "I've been sending some of my writing…to a few publishers, back in Ireland, including some newspapers."

Her eyes widened then. She knew Tom had dedicated a great deal of his time to research and study, and that he was perfecting his skills with a typewriter. She knew that when it came to the world of politics, he didn't see himself so much as the man giving speeches…but as the man who wrote them; as the man who would teach and spread the word about justice, equality, and freedom for all people, through the gift of his intellect, his convictions, and his passionate words.

"Tom Branson, journalist…" she said with a smile, her hands now looping around his neck, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape.

He blushed at her words and looked rather bashful. "Not yet…but hopefully, soon," he sighed. "Once I have a position, I'll be able to stand before your family to prove that I'm worthy—"

"You are _already_ worthy," she interrupted, her brow furrowing into a frown. "You don't need to prove anything to them…and you certainly shouldn't do this for anyone but _yourself."_

He smiled at her, and her heart soared at the look she saw in his eyes. Her words had clearly touched him, and he leaned forward and gave her a sweet, simple, yet lingering kiss on her lips. "Oh Sybil…you make me believe I can fly, if I wanted to."

She smiled at this. He had the same effect on her. She always knew he could make something of himself, whatever it was that he desired to be. And even though she had never asked him that same question, she believed he thought the same of her.

_Two minds and two hearts that think and beat as one…_

"Love…"

She looked up at him and saw that his eyes were once again focused on the horizon. Yes, it was getting lighter. The sun would be up very soon, and the maids were always up lighting the fires by then. She needed to return to the house; but God help her, she didn't want to leave him. Even in her nightgown and bare feet, she felt ten times warmer standing in the circle of his arms than she would under the blankets of her own bed.

She suddenly felt like crying again. He was back, he hadn't gone to Ireland without her, and he still loved her and by some miracle, had forgiven her for letting Mary and Edith take her away. But she quickly realized that this would be even harder. He would be there, living so close…and yet now, both Edith and Anna knew, along with Mary, about her feelings for Tom...and if the journey back to Downton had been any indication of how her eldest sister viewed the relationship…well, there was little doubt that Mary would be keeping an extremely close watch on the both of them. That is, of course, if she didn't say anything to their parents.

_I'll have to speak to her_, she realized. _I'll have to speak with her…today._ Oh God, of all the people and of all the conversations. She would much rather confront the entire family than have to sit in a room with Mary and defend the choice of her heart.

"What are we going to do?" she asked him, looking up into his eyes, her vision blurred because of her tears. "They'll be watching us; they'll try to stop—"

"They won't," he all but growled, his arms tightening around her. It was a possessive gesture, but Sybil didn't mind. In truth, she felt the same way, because she clung to him just as tightly. "We'll find a way, love, I promise."

She believed him. She didn't know how, exactly, they would find this way, but she believed him that they would.

"Promise me," she whispered, hugging him close. "As soon as you receive word that you have a job, promise me that you'll tell me, and we'll go to my family the next day and reveal everything."

He held her tightly, returning the fierce embrace. "I promise," he vowed. He took her face in his hands then, and brought her lips back to his once more. The kiss was long and deep; in some ways it felt like a goodbye kiss, and she hated that. But she knew it was meant to be a kiss that would satisfy them—or try to satisfy them—until the time came again when they could be together like this. But when that would be? She didn't know.

_Be strong. Be brave. For him. For yourself. _

She pulled back…and somehow managed to step away, out of his embrace, away from his body. The second she had, the cold air of late January enfolded her, and she trembled at its touch. He held her gaze and watched as she took a few tentative steps back. She could tell that he was struggling just as much as she was, because his hands were balling into fists, as if trying to resist the urge to reach out for her.

"I love you…" she whispered, biting her lip and trying to bite back the tears that threatened to fall.

He gave her a smile, and she could see the raw emotion in his eyes as well. But despite it, he smiled, before murmuring, "I love you too."

She took a deep breath, and turned towards the house, forcing her feet to go forward and to hurry. She could feel his eyes on her back, even after she reentered the house and disappeared from view. She could smell the scent of his skin on her clothing, and still taste the delicious flavor of his lips on her own. It would always be like this, she realized. No matter where they were, no matter the distance, be it across a sea, or just a few yards away between an estate and chauffeur's cottage; he would always be a part of her…and she him.

No, they had failed to reach Gretna Green. They had not been married, they had not celebrated a wedding breakfast, and they certainly hadn't woken up to how she had imagined the morning after her wedding would be. And yet…in a way it seemed…a marriage had taken place, and vows had been made.

She smiled as she remembered that passage from Song of Solomon: _I am my beloveds and my beloved is mine._ Yes…as far as her heart, mind, and her soul were concerned…Tom Branson was her husband.


	136. The Truth At Last

_Here's a quick chapter I wanted to post. I felt that after the sweet reunion between Tom and Sybil in the last chapter, he would go straight to his cottage and write to his mother and tell her the truth, finally, about who this girl was that he's been hinting at. So here is that letter. More will be posted over the next few days. Sit tight! Some really good stuff will happen in some upcoming future chapters! :oD Till then, thanks for reading and commenting as always!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Thirty-Six<strong>

Dear Mother,

It's been several weeks since my last letter. I know you're still angry with me, for many reasons…and I won't fault you for any of that. God knows you have a right to be…and I'm about to give you another.

…

…

There's no easy way to say it, so I'm just going come straight out and say it.

The girl, Mother, the girl who I told you about, who I love, who I want to marry…she's the daughter of my employer.

…

You did not misread that.

Now STOP screaming, because I know you are. And stop cursing my name, or lighting candles to the saints in fear that I'm hell-bound for some unspeakable sin. Although I know some would consider falling in love and proposing to a woman "above my station" to be sinful. But I'm not ashamed, nor is she. And I pray that you are still reading this letter now, and will let me explain.

…

When I first came to Downton Abbey, I…I didn't know what I wanted with my life. I knew I didn't want to be a chauffeur for the rest of my days, but at the same time, I had no grand plans, I don't even know if I had a dream. But…but Sybil—that's her name, Mam—Sybil…she began inspiring me from the first day.

Sybil is an extraordinary woman. Everything I said about her in that first letter, when I told you I was in love, is true. She's witty, intelligent, kind, brave, beautiful…and she has the best and biggest heart of anyone I know. She's political like me, in fact you could say that's how we bonded. I learned very quickly after meeting her that she had a passion for women's rights and women getting the vote. We talked about politics, and I quickly found a kindred spirit, as well a dear friend. I wasn't lying when I said that supports freedom for Ireland; she truly does! She also supports equal rights between social classes; she's not like any aristocrat you've ever met, I swear! I know, I know, you might think I'm biased because I'm in love with her, but it's true, Mam…if you met her, you would see what I mean.

And she loves me. She's told me so, she has. She loves me and she wants to marry me, and she's not foolish, Mam. She knows that it will be different, but she's accepted that, she's prepared for it, in fact she wants it! Did I tell you that she worked as a nurse during the War? That's what I mean about how big her heart is, she's always thinking of others, always trying to find ways to help others. In fact, when I came to Downton, I soon learned that she was trying to help a housemaid find a job as a secretary, a woman who is a dear friend of ours, both Sybil's and mine. She helped her, and then we War broke out, she found a way to help the soldiers, by going to York to take a nurse's training course. She was instrumental in convincing her family to transform their house into a convalescent home for soldiers, and…she's just always trying to find ways to help. She loves work, Mam, truly, she's not afraid of work! She wants to be busy, to be doing something with her hands, to feel like she's making a difference—I know that may sound strange to people like us because we've never known a day where we didn't have to work, but…please, don't let any cynicism you may feel color your assumptions about her. She's a good woman, Mam. A very good woman. She's the best woman I know. And…I know you may think I presume too much when I say this, but she's the sort of woman a mother would want for her son.

And she makes me happy. She makes so happy. I love her so much, I…I don't even know if I can describe how she causes my heart to soar when I hear her footsteps on the gravel outside the garage where I work, or when I hear beautiful, infectious laugh…or when I see her smile, the way her eyes, large and blue and beautiful, just…sparkle with light and life. No; this isn't a passing fancy, for either of us. The truth is, I've had these feelings for years. And…and so has she. And…and you should also know that I proposed to her over three years ago, in November of 1916, just before she left for York. So you see, this isn't just some "whim"; and while she tells me that had feelings for me then (and I do believe her, amazing as that is to think she loved me then), she didn't accept my proposal because she wanted to be sure, she wanted to be careful—and even though it broke my heart at the time, I look back and realize the blessing that was; because it helped us both grow and discover and realize that these feelings are true, are genuine, and we realize now that we will not be happy without the other. She needs me…just as much as I need her. We are…we are like two halves of the same heart; of the same soul.

Are you still reading at this point? I pray you are. I pray you haven't ripped this note in half or thrown it into the rubbish heap. Because this is real, Mother. We _are_ going to be married—_properly_, married. We haven't told her family yet—but we will. And we haven't done anything improper—although no doubt you think a man like myself, letting my heart get "carried away" with a woman like Sybil is improper enough. But I have not done anything to bring shame upon her, her good name, or our family's name. But neither Sybil or I are ashamed of our feelings; we see each other as equals, and that is the marriage we will have: equals.

We are waiting, actually. Waiting until I have a job lined up back in Ireland. I have written to several publishers and newspaper editors, offering the writing and research I have done with hopes of finding work as a journalist.

I always wanted to do something in politics, but I see now that my passion is in writing. I love doing the research, exploring the story, sharing my views with others, and helping them better understand those views, as well as help people become better informed. Sybil—I told you she inspires me—but Sybil always saw something in me that…that I never thought possible. It was she, Mam, who told me that she hoped I would one day go into politics because she thought it a "fine ambition". And now I realize what it is a love, and she's always supported me, always encouraged me, always believed I could make something of myself, and I am doing that, I will do that! My days of working in service are over; it's just not right for me. This…this is my calling, I see and understand that now, and so does Sybil. So once I find something, which I am hopeful will be soon…then Sybil and I will go, hand in hand, and tell her family everything. Yes, we both suspect that there will be anger, and possibly some tears. But she's determined. If we weren't waiting to hear from a newspaper, she would want to go and tell them now, so we could leave for Ireland and be married as soon as possible. But we are being smart, despite what you may think of this whole situation. We are biding our time, making sure we have money set aside…and I do have money set aside, Mam; I have some money that will help us get started, and once we're back in Dublin, Sybil will find work as a nurse, and…and we'll begin our lives together.

_As husband and wife._

This is not a passing fancy. This is true. And no matter what her family says…we're both determined.

…

…

And that goes for me too.

Forgive me, Mother, but…I'm not writing you all this and seeking your permission. I'm twenty-eight years old—only a few months away from my twenty-ninth birthday; I'm not a child. I…I know that you're angry with me for keeping this secret from you for so long. I understand that. And I know that I only have myself to blame. I'm not asking for your forgiveness, or for your blessing, although I would dearly hope you would give it.

But you deserve the truth. You always have. And despite what you may think, I do love you. All of you, and I do miss you. And…maybe this will be easier for you to understand and take in when you meet her? As I hope you will when we come. I hope you will be there at the docks to greet your son and his fiancée, I hope you will welcome us to your table, and be willing to get to know Sybil. I am sure that once you do, you will fall in love with her as I have.

I will let you decide how to tell the others, as well as who you shall tell. I am not ashamed of my feelings or my choices. If you wish to share this letter with every Branson in the entire country, by all means; it is your right to do so, and as I said before, I'm not ashamed.

…

So there you have it. That's it, that's everything. I have fallen in love with Sybil Crawley, third and youngest daughter to the Earl of Grantham, my employer. An English aristocrat, a Lady; and who has accepted my proposal to being my wife. And she will be. She will be my wife, and I will be her husband. And…and if we must venture forth and create a new life for ourselves without either of you…as much as it breaks my heart to say it, then so be it. I'm not giving her up, Mam. And she will fight just as hard.

…

…

I miss you. I miss you, I miss our family, I miss home, and…and I am eager; so eager to return to Ireland, to set my feet on the soil of my birth, to hear the beautiful, musical accents of my people once again…and to see the smiling faces of my family. I just pray that after learning all of this, you will still welcome us.

…

I will write to you again. I will write to you certainly before we leave. But I wanted you to know all this. And…and once again, I'm sorry, Mam; I'm sorry for not being completely honest before. I pray you can one day forgive me.

Your loving, foolish son,

—Tom


	137. Sybil's Diary XXXII

_Sorry for the delay! I will dedicate the next few days to updating this fic; I have some fun stuff planned for future chapters! Anyway, here Sybil will talk about the "after math" of Mary coming to see her, after the botched elopement, as well as pave the way for some future events during what I call "the waiting period". Hope you enjoy and thanks for your patience!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Thirty-Seven<strong>

January 20, 1919

I've spent so much time making excuses about feeling ill, that I think I have genuinely succeeded in making myself so. My head throbs, my body aches, and my stomach…

Oh Lord, the last thing I want is a visit from Dr. Clarkson. However I would welcome his appearance a great deal more than the "guests" to whom I had the "pleasure" of entertaining earlier.

…

…

I knew it was only going to be a matter of time. I knew that as soon as she was able, Mary would come bursting into my room to continue our "discussion" from the night before. And I was right; she did come, although perhaps a little later than I had anticipated, sometime before luncheon…or before when luncheon would have taken place, if I had gone downstairs to partake in it.

I was waiting for her. I thought perhaps before the sun was up she would come to my room and demand answers. If truth be told, I was practically expecting to find her in my room when I returned. Oh Lord, what would she have said then? Seeing me in that state, my hair unbound, my feet bare, wearing nothing but my nightdress and robe…

I wish she had been there, now that I think about it. I'm not ashamed of my feelings for Tom; and if she thought me a…a…a _wanton_, yes, a wanton for such a display, then so be it! At least I'm not afraid anymore! At least _I'm_ being honest with myself in who I truly love! I will not hide my feelings; I will not apologize for them!

…

…

Well, as I said, she didn't come until much later. My excuses were given, from what I understand, just as Mary said they would be given, telling both Mama and Papa that I remain "ill" just as I had told everyone I was feeling last night, before I attempted to run away with Tom.

…

If truth be told, the idea of sleep seems like such a foreign concept. Even after my sleepless night, I was still unable to close my eyes after returning to my room, this morning. Even after the assurance that Tom had returned, that he didn't hate me or despise me or wanted to leave for Ireland without me (and he has every right to do so; he may have forgiven me, but that doesn't mean _I've_ forgiven me)—but even after all that, I was still unable to get any rest. My nerves—my entire being, really, was and remains to be…on edge! After seeing him outside…after seeing him beneath the willow tree, and feeling his arms around me as I held him tight…and feeling his lips against mine…oh God in heaven, how can a woman relax after such an encounter?

…

Of course, before all of this happened, I had thought that my night would have been sleepless for…_other_…reasons.

…

…

Lord, my face feels like it's on fire! And yet…and yet I can't help but grin at the thought! I suppose girls are supposed to be nervous when they think about their wedding night. And…and I'm sure when the time comes, I will be, but…I can't deny, I find the idea rather…well, rather exciting, actually!

…I'm giggling now, because I imagine Mary would be shocked speechless if she knew what I was thinking!

…

I don't know what she was expecting me to say. An apology, perhaps? Well, she didn't receive one. She didn't come storming in, yet she didn't pause to let me call out to her when she knocked on my door. It was one simple knock, and before I even had the chance to turn my head, she was entering the room and shutting the door quickly behind her. She then proceeded to inform me that Mama and Papa both believed I was still "ill" from last night, however I best make myself "better" before the day was over, otherwise Mama would most likely call for Dr. Clarkson.

Was Mary expecting me to "thank her"? Was she expecting me to show gratitude for making these excuses? She was the one who told me she would be doing so; I never requested such a thing! I was ready—still am ready, to a point, to go and tell Mama and Papa the truth. Yet…I understand why Tom wants to wait, and really, with the amount of waiting I put him through, I have no right to complain. Still…I miss him terribly. And it's made worse, I suppose, because he is so close, and the temptation to sneak out and go to his cottage—

But I can't, of course. Mary is no doubt keeping a hawk-like eye on me, and I wouldn't be surprised if Edith is doing the same and perhaps even Anna.

I haven't seen or spoken to Anna since last night. Jane came to my room this morning, a little to my surprise…but it was the best, I suppose. I…I honestly don't know what to think of Anna right now. I'm upset and angry with her for helping Mary and Edith find us, and no doubt it was Anna who came upon my letter and informed my sisters, but…

…

...

Anna is impossible to stay angry at, at least not for a long period of time. And she did try to calm Mary's anger last night. But still…I need some time before I speak with her again, I think.

…

After telling me about the excuse had made on my behalf…Mary then began to pace, looking at me sternly with eyes filled with what I can only describe as "disappointment". There really was only one thing I cared about, and that was knowing _if_ and _when_ she was going to say something to Mama and Papa about last night…or if Anna or herself, would say something to Carson about Tom taking the car. Did Mary know Tom had returned? I never thought to ask…but I'm sure she must. I'm sure her hawk-like eyes are everywhere, not just upon me.

However, she wasn't interested in any of that. She proceeded then to once again lecture me about how I had broken my promise, about not doing anything foolish. How she had kept her end of the bargain, and despite her better judgment, hadn't said anything to Papa—and alright, I can't fault her for that, she did keep her promise, but…but what did she want me to say? What was I supposed to say? It was so tempting to lash out at her, but I didn't, by some miracle. I sat and I waited while she spoke, my fists clenched at my sides, my jaw set. She proceeded to tell me that I "lied" to her about my feelings for Tom, that clearly I had "misled" her into thinking that it was completely one-sided, that he was the only person who had feelings in all this.

I confess I found myself biting my lip in that moment, trying to keep myself from laughing. And here I thought I wasn't doing a very good job of hiding my feelings? But then again, Mary has been so blinded during these past few months—years, perhaps, about her own feelings and who she truly loves, that perhaps she was unable to see what was happening around her?

After this lecture, she moved onto (or perhaps moved back to) reprimanding me for my foolishness in attempting to elope with Tom. That my actions would have hurt the family, they would have ruined Edith's prospects in securing a husband, maybe even cause Sir Richard to break off his engagement to her (I didn't say it, but I did think, "GOOD!"), and how such actions would cause the family to…to break up and fall to pieces, all because of my "selfish cruelty".

Yes…yes, that was exactly what she called it. "Selfish cruelty".

I couldn't stay silent after that.

I was rather like a wolf then, or a lioness, rising forth and roaring at her.

"_I'm selfish? I'm cruel? You're the one who called me a baby and said I lived in a fantasy world if I thought any of you could accept a marriage to Tom, let alone come and sit and have tea with us!" _

Did she remember those words from a year ago? I saw something flash in her eyes when I said them…I think she perhaps did, because her face began to glow a bright red.

I then told her how Tom would welcome my family; that he kept assuring me over and over that they would accept me and my choices, because they are "good people", and yet hearing her speak this way only confirmed for me what I sadly knew deep in my heart; that despite Tom's optimism, they aren't good. They can't see Tom's intelligence, his honor, his gentlemanly behavior which is ten-times more gentlemanly than most gentlemen—all they can see is that he comes from an Irish working class background, and that's it. They refuse to see anything else, and they certainly refuse to see how HE makes me happy. I shouted all of this at her, glaring into her eyes and not blinking once. And then I threw the words back at her, saying that she and the others were the ones guilty of "selfish cruelty".

…

…

We didn't say anything after that. We didn't even move. We just…stared at each other, each of us looking hurt…each of us feeling hurt.

…

But I'm not sorry for what I said. I'm not. I am not breaking up the family by marrying Tom. Perhaps…perhaps, when I look back at my actions from the previous night, perhaps running away to Gretna Green wasn't the wisest idea, and may have done far more harm than good, but…but I was desperate. I love Tom…I love him, I have been in love with him for so long, and…and I will not let ANYONE or ANYTHING drive us apart…not even my own fear. But that was why I wanted to elope, because I feared they would try to do just that, if I went and told them I was in love with the Downton chauffeur. And after this conversation with Mary, I can see now that's how they will see him; not Tom Branson the man, but Branson the Downton chauffeur.

If the family breaks up because of this…it will not be of _my_ doing. That is certainly the case now. And I suppose that's the silver lining; by coming back here and facing all of them, hand in hand, showing our intentions to be pure and true…I suppose that will put all of them to the test. The question of whether or not they rejected me because I "humiliated" them by running away will never hang over my head now. No…now I will know for a certain that their rejection is based on their own prejudices. And that a "good name" and "family honor" in Society, matters more than their youngest daughter's and sister's happiness.

…

…

These are bitter words, but they are how I feel right now.

…

I suppose there really wasn't a great deal more that could be said after that. I hadn't made any excuses or apologies for what had happened last night, nor did I even try to explain myself. I think I made it very clear, both by my actions, as well as by my argument, that I love Tom and I am determined to marry him, no matter what.

Mary didn't even really try to persuade me otherwise…which I will admit, I'm thankful for. In some ways, I suppose I'm surprised she didn't…but perhaps she recognized my determination and didn't see the point?

…I…I didn't ask her if she was going to say anything to Mama or Papa. I think…I think despite all of this…Mary will not say anything, even if she doesn't agree with me. I think we have that understanding, at least. If I want to "ruin my life" as she sees it, then I can be the one to tell them myself. So…I am grateful for that. But I know she will be watching us, of course. There's no stopping that. And I have no doubt she will change battle tactics and try to find other ways to discourage me. But I do think I can trust her to keep her lips sealed about all of this. Ironically, despite everything, I do think I can trust her…just as I have trusted her to keep my secret before.

…

…

I haven't seen Edith today. I thought she might try to pop in, to learn more about my feelings for Tom, since she knew so little. But she hasn't come by either. Mama has, though. Oh Lord, I just finally managed to convince Mama to go and leave me alone, despite the fact that now my stomach is feeling twisted and nauseas. Perhaps that's my "punishment"? To actually feel ill after lying to everyone last night that I was? Mama had spent a bulk of her day with Cousin Isobel; she was surprised when she returned home for tea that I still hadn't emerged. The truth is I don't really want to. There's only one place I want to go, and right now, I know that's impossible.

Oh God, I hope we can come up with something; some way to communicate because it's driving me mad! Even if it were just something as simple as exchanging letters…that would be enough. Well, enough for the moment, at least.

Mama says that if I'm still feeling like this tomorrow, she will send for Dr. Clarkson, so I best be on the mend by then. It's just as well though; I don't know if I could have managed sitting across from either Mary or Edith tonight. Or Matthew, for that matter, seeing him smile at Lavinia. I don't know if Matthew loves Lavinia or not; I do think he cares for her a great deal, but I don't know if that's love. But to see him sit there, preparing to marry a woman that I don't believe he loves as deeply as my sister…and yet…still, being allowed to carry on with that marriage, whereas I, who truly does love Tom and who truly wants to be his bride, am looked down upon because my choice of husband has been deemed by so-called Society as being "below me"…OH! It is infuriating!

…

…

…

I don't think I would be able to hold my tongue if I where there this evening, so it's just as well. I need to calm myself, and just…try to figure out ways to get through these next few weeks, while Tom waits to hear word from those different newspapers. He's right, of course. We need to be prepared, we need to have a plan, and even though he is worthy in my eyes and SHOULD be seen as worthy in there's…I understand why he feels it necessary to have this job lined up before we make our announcement.

Oh Tom, I'm so proud of him and…and I love him so much.

God, what I fool I was in the past! I will never stop chastising myself for being so…so stupid! For letting my doubt and my fear get the better of me. Never again.

…

Well, I should find ways to make myself useful. If we must wait, then I must also work hard to prepare for our life together when we leave Downton. Perhaps I can convince Mrs. Patmore to give me some more lessons? She only taught me the very basics…but…but perhaps she will teach me a few more recipes? Something simple, nothing too fancy, of course. But…stews, for example. I wonder what Tom's favorite dishes are? Maybe I can ask Mrs. Patmore what sort of foods he seems to like? Although I must be subtle in my questioning. But yes, take a few more lessons in cooking, and cleaning too. I already know how to make a bed, but…but I can learn more about laundry and…dusting and polishing.

…

Gracious, I can only imagine how silly this must all sound to someone like Anna or Jane or even Gwen. Yes…I will need to write to Gwen again, and tell her what happened, and I should do that soon. Although I'm not looking forward to that letter.

…

…

I was hoping I would be Mrs. Sybil Branson when I next wrote in this thing. But I'm _still_ Lady Sybil Crawley.

…

…

…

But not for long. No, no, God help me, not for very much longer.


	138. Branson's Journal XVI

_Happy St. Patrick's Day! And what better day to post a "Branson" chapter? Here we hear about Tom's first day back at Downton after the "botched elopement", and who came to visit him. Hope you enjoy this little journey into our favorite Irishman's mind, as he recollects the events of the earlier morning when he returned to be reunited with Sybil. Thanks as always for reading and reviewing! ENJOY!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Thirty-Eight<strong>

January 20, 1919

I wondered if this would happen. After learning that she had helped them find us last night, I wondered if Anna would pop by the garage to "welcome" me back. I never unpacked my things, just in case Mr. Carson, or worse, his Lordship, came trudging out there, ready to boot me off the property before threatening to cart me off to prison. But neither of them came…simply Anna.

I haven't been inside the house at all today. I've taken every meal here in my cottage, including my tea. What's the point? I'll find myself sitting and fuming as I look at her, which will raise eyebrows and cause people to ask questions, questions that I'm not prepared at this point to answer. As shallow as it may sound, the truth is I—_we_, need the money. So the longer I can hold onto this job until the next one presents itself, the better. But…but there's another reason as well I avoided going into the house, or really, avoided seeing her. Because the truth is, I _do_ like Anna. She is a good friend, despite…well, I suppose I can't really blame her, even though I would deeply like to. Anna is not one for "breaking the rules" and never has been. And I have no doubt that Lady Mary was the driving force (with Lady Edith as the driver) in chasing us down. I suppose Anna had her hands tied; after all, what could she do? Refuse to help and accompany them? No, of course not. I don't even know if Gwen could do such a thing, if she were still here and had been cornered to help.

But…I'm not perfect, by any means. So I can't say that there's a small part of me right now that doesn't like Anna, because it's not true. But I know I'll get over it, in my own time.

Still…I wasn't too surprised when she did turn up at the garage as the day progressed.

It was after I came back from the village, having taken my letter to the post myself, instead of leaving it for Mr. Carson or Mrs. Hughes to give to the delivery boy. Not that it will reach Ireland any sooner, but…I don't know; I just felt that the walk was needed.

I've been running on fumes, I think. Rather like a motor that's nearly out of petrol. After everything that happened last night…and the long journey back to Downton, you would think I would be exhausted, so much so that I would want to collapse and sleep for days.

…Indeed, last night was hardly the sleepless night I had originally imagined, I must confess.

The only good thing about coming back to this place was seeing Sybil. I…I didn't know if she would even be awake, let alone notice me, but…I hoped and I prayed, and then when I saw her open her window…I just kept staring and willing and finding myself thinking like John Thornton from North and South, repeating over and over, "look at me…look at me…"

And she did.

And then she disappeared, and for a moment I panicked. I didn't know what was happening, I thought perhaps I had frightened her, that perhaps she didn't recognize me in the early morning shadows, that she thought I was some sort of intruder, and I wondered if I should just leave, return to my cottage or even attempt to scale the walls of the house to find her and tell her it was me, that I had come back, that I still loved her—

And then she was there; running across the grass, silly girl that she is, in her bare feet and in nothing but her robe and night dress. God…I suppose some hopes from how I thought the night would go did come true, seeing her in such a lovely state. She cried my name, leapt towards me and I caught her. I caught her and I held her and kissed her; and I told her that I loved her. And she did the same.

…

…

There are no words to describe just…how I feel, knowing that. Knowing that she loves me; _loves_ me. And that despite what happened the previous night, despite her leaving with her sisters, she did mean those words; that she would stay true to me, and I knew that, I did, deep in my heart I knew it to be true. But hearing her tell me again, and seeing the sorrow in her eyes, the fear that I may have gone without her…it was heartbreaking to behold, yes, but at the same time, it filled me with awe, because I realized perhaps more now than before, that yes…she really, truly loves me. And she wants to marry me, and live the rest of her days as my wife.

…

Our original plans may have been thwarted, but I now feel closer to Sybil than ever before.

After watching her return to the house, I returned to the cottage and immediately wrote to my mother, finally telling her everything. The whole truth; who Sybil was, why I loved her, and that yes, despite our differences, the two of us _will be_ married.

God, I…I don't know what to expect when she receives that letter. I know she'll be furious, but I pray she will not cast us aside. After everything I've said to Sybil about how her family will come around, I pray that my own won't disappoint me and prove me otherwise. Perhaps that's why I needed to walk to the village? Just…to have a moment away from Downton; a moment alone with my thoughts.

Between the time I wrote my letter and went down to the village to deliver it, I waited, tinkering about in the garage as if it were just another day, letting my presence be known to anyone about, but also waiting to see if I would be receiving any "guests", be they Mr. Carson, his Lordship, Lady Mary…or the police. After a few hours, and no surprise visitors, I decided then to take my letter down to the village to post…and that when I returned, and found her sitting and waiting for me.

…

…

I honestly didn't know what to say. Well, that's not entirely true, I _did_ know what I wanted to say, but I knew that I shouldn't. And I didn't feel like speaking first, and I certainly wasn't going to apologize if that's what she wanted me to do. And then I began wondering if she had been sent by Lady Mary, knowing how close those two are; had she been sent to spy on me? That thought made me bristle, and I was extremely tempted to just turn and walk out of the garage, for fear that I would say those things I was thinking—

But what she said wasn't what I had expected.

I remember her words so well…I'm fairly positive I could repeat them here…

_"Is it true? You and Lady Sybil want to get married?"_

I stiffened at her question, and felt myself continuing to bristle. However I squared my shoulders and turned to face her, my jaw set and simply murmured, "Aye" to her question.

…

She didn't look at me like I thought she would. Anna—saintly, sweet Anna, who never breaks the rules, who is always following protocol—she gazed up at me with wonder. And then…then what she said truly stunned me!

_ "That's just like her,"_ she murmured, so softly I had to lean in to catch her words. She then giggled, something I had not been expecting, before looking back at me and saying, _"Truly, I don't think there are two people here more destined for the other than the both of you!"_

I think my mouth literally fell open at that.

At first I thought she was joking, because she kept giggling! But I realized that while yes, she was laughing, it wasn't because she was mocking us, but rather…she believed what she had said! She truly thought…Sybil and I were meant to be!

She then went on to say something about how she should have seen it coming, that she had actually suspected the both of us a few years ago, back when we were at Gwen's wedding, but then thought it was nothing more than "harmless flirting" (if that's possible). At one point she thought that maybe it was simply "one-sided", like one of us having a crush on the other…but once again, I found myself stunned into silence, my mouth hanging open as she revealed that she had suspected SYBIL to the one with the crush!

_ SYBIL! _

Anna explained it was because Sybil would often ask after me, and would ask in such a way that she was being rather _obvious_ in attempting to be discrete.

…

…

I confess, I find myself chuckling now, because all this time, there was someone else who speculated, who wondered, and all because of Sybil! Now I find myself most curious as to what she asked Anna…

…

I can't stop chuckling at the thought. Oh Sybil…my beautiful, sweet English girl. God, how I miss her. She's just a few yards away, but it might as well be the Irish Sea dividing us. To be so close, to finally rest assured in the knowledge of how she feels, and yet to be unable to hold her, to kiss her, to even see her. And she's right, of course; she's right that the two of us will be watched more now than ever before. And while I appreciate Anna's sweet comments, I don't think she'll take that step that Gwen took, and work as a confidant between Sybil and myself.

Anna's parting words were telling me she was glad that I had returned, assuring me that she wouldn't say anything to Mr. Carson (even though she thought she probably should) but it wasn't her place to say, and besides…she trusted that my intentions to Sybil were truly honorable, and since the two of us would be standing before her family and announcing our intentions together before all of them…why bother saying anything to anyone else?

I did murmur a thank you, and Anna left me then. And no one, not even Lady Mary who I suspected may drop by, has seen me since. No one ordered the motor; no one came to see how I was, even though I took all my meals in the cottage today and tonight. I have been left completely on my own to stew in my own thoughts and recollections…and yearn for the woman I love to be here with me.

So now we begin another period of waiting.

Along with my letter home, I also posted two more letters and examples of my work to two more newspapers in Dublin. Dublin is my best chance at finding work, especially as it's the center of all that is happening Ireland right now. But perhaps I need to consider applying to other newspapers as well, in other cities? God, I don't even want to think about Belfast; I would sooner apply for something in America. Hopefully it won't come to that. God, please help me find something and soon, for both Sybil's and my sake.

Because already, my arms ache to hold her again. And my lips are parched, and only hers will give them relief. To feel her heartbeat against my chest…to feel her small, soft fingers touch my face and tangle in my hair. To breathe in the sweet fragrance of her skin…

…

…

I thought I had "mastered the art" when it came to patience. But now, I can see that my greatest test is about to begin.


	139. 1919: A Second Letter to Gwen

_Not much of an introduction for this chapter; it's still the day after the botched elopement, just later in the evening. Mary has been the only Crawley sister to see her. She has had no other contact with Tom since early that morning when she saw him outside her window. Basically, as you can imagine, she feels a little cut off from the rest of the world. BUT THAT WILL SOON CHANGE! Gonna get started on the next chapter to this...some BIG THINGS are going to be happening soon ;o) Till then, I hope you enjoy this!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Thirty-Nine<strong>

Dear Gwen,

…

…

I'm still Sybil Crawley.

…

…

Forgive me, I…I didn't think it would be that difficult, still, to write that. I've actually been staring at this piece of paper for…I don't know, I've lost track of the time, at least an hour although I'm sure it's more. But I've been staring at it and screaming at myself to just…to just write and say what I need to say, what I have to say, and yet every time I think I'm ready to write those words, my hand begins to tremble and…

…

…

…

I'm sorry, Gwen. I…I feel as if I've disappointed you. Does that sound silly? I'm sure it does. Because I know, deep in my heart, that you're not "disappointed", at least not disappointed in the sense that I'm thinking. And yet…after all the talk I put down in my last letter, no doubt giving you quite a start in telling you that by the time I next write to you I would be "Mrs. Sybil Branson"—and yet here I am; _still_ Sybil Crawley.

…

First, let me assure you that both of us, Tom and I, are alright. I am writing this letter to you, once again, from my bedroom at Downton, although unlike my last letter, there is no enthusiasm, yet there are tears. Tom is here too, (well, he's not literally here, in my bedroom…even though I am bold enough to say, without embarrassment, that I wish he were), but he is back in his cottage, or the garage—at least, I hope he's still there. I…I don't know if anyone has said anything to him, but…

Oh Lord, Gwen, I suppose I should just go back to the beginning. Tom and I began our journey to Gretna Green last night as we had planned; I made my escape an hour after Carson rang the dressing gong, and then we quickly began our journey northward towards Scotland. However, fate it seemed had other plans for us. Whether it was car trouble or Tom suddenly finding himself very tired, we could not continue as planned and had to stop somewhere for the night. There was an inn near the border, where we did stop, and…yes, we did lie to the innkeeper and pretend that we already were husband and wife…under the names of Anne and Fredrick Wentworth.

…

…

I'm sorry Gwen, the memory of that entire incident makes me smile, as well as brings tears to my eyes.

…

No doubt you're wondering what happened next. I hope you of all people would not suspect Tom of doing anything ungentlemanly…even if I wanted him to. Oh Gwen, are you shocked that I would say such things? I confess, I shock myself sometimes! But it's the truth, and if I can't tell you the truth, then who can I tell? But no, nothing happened…in _that_ sense. Tom, honorable and gallant as always, took the chair in the room, giving me the bed. And that was where my sisters found us; Mary, Edith, and even Anna. They had found my letter, and Edith had driven them and they saw the car outside the inn…and then found us.

…

God, I…I can't believe it all happened only one night ago. It truly feels like another life, or a dream—a beautiful dream that I was forced to wake from.

I returned with them, Mary and Edith; I find myself sitting here and wondering why. Will it truly make the blow easier for Mama and Papa when I tell them? Will they accept my decision because I went to them first rather than go behind their backs and marry Tom like I wanted to? Perhaps…but I doubt it. That was the argument that my sisters tried to make, but in all honesty, Gwen, I feel as if I'm just delaying the inevitable explosion that will surely come when I—no, when Tom and I, tell them the truth. That's what we're going to do, Gwen; Tom and I will go to my family, together, and tell them our intentions. We won't be asking for their blessing, because I know they will not grant it. But…even though it means a little more waiting, which is driving me mad when I think about it, I do find myself seeing the "logic" behind it. Perhaps this way they will truly see that I am serious, that I do love Tom and that this is the life I truly want for myself.

It also allows Tom some time to find work. He's planning on becoming a journalist (which I'm sure doesn't surprise you, since you gave him that typewriter) but he's submitted some articles to a few newspapers (how many, I'm not sure) but that's his—no, that's our plan; as soon as he receives word and is offered a job, that's when we'll go to my parents and tell them everything. That's when we'll leave.

…

…

It's terrifying in some ways to think about it. I suppose in the excitement of running away to Gretna Green, I didn't allow the anxiety about our situation—about what would happen after we married, and what we would do and the life we would live, to settle. But…that anxiety isn't enough to stop me from marrying Tom. I'm determined Gwen, in fact I would say I'm even more determined now than before. I will marry him; he will be my husband and I will be his wife, and we will leave this place and make our own future.

Perhaps you're wondering what happened to Tom after Anna and my sisters found us? He returned the car early this morning; I know because I saw him. He was standing beneath the willow tree, the one just outside my room. I saw him in the early light of morning, before the sun rose over the horizon, and not caring, I ran downstairs and leapt into his arms, sobbing and apologizing for leaving with them, terrified that he hated me or despised me…but I should have known better.

Oh Gwen, I was so blind in the past! I feel as if I've wasted so many years of my life, by not accepting his proposal when he first asked, by not giving in to my feelings, because when I look back and examine them, I realize that I did love him all this time; truly! He is my equal in every way. I can't imagine loving another as I love Tom. And now it is going to be even harder, because my sisters know and Anna knows, which means I know they will be keeping close watch on the both of us.

And I can't deny there is a part of me that worries that one of them or all of them will say something. It's getting late and I should be exhausted—I am exhausted, but I don't dare fall asleep, because I'm frightened that when I wake up tomorrow morning, I'll discover that Tom is gone, that Carson or Papa will have sacked him and thrown him out of Downton—or worse, will have had him arrested and deported back to Ireland! And if that happens, I will leave, Gwen, I mean it. Remember how I told you, all those years ago, after the count in Ripon, that I would leave if Papa fired Tom? I meant it then, and I mean it now, even more so. I will leave, and I will travel to Dublin on my own if I must, but I will go that very same day if I discover that he is gone. I…I don't know if Mary or the others will say anything; I haven't seen or spoken to either Edith or Anna, and when Mary did visit, she made no mention about saying anything. The truth is, she hasn't said anything yet to Papa, and so despite her obvious displeasure in my choice, I do think I can trust her in not saying anything now. But I'll always be anxious; I don't think I'll stop being anxious until _after_ we're married.

Which leads me to the other purpose of this letter; Gwen, will you help me in answering any questions I have about…well, about being _a wife?_ I know that may sound strange, but I realized that despite the few tips Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes gave me prior to leaving for York, I really don't know that much about running and managing a home without servants. And while I do see myself working and I want to continue working as a nurse, at the same time I want be able to cook a decent dinner, sweep and clean and dust a house, wash laundry, and…and…

…

…

Oh Lord, I…I don't even know how to ask this.

…

But may I ask you questions about…well, about…about the marriage bed?

OH GOD! Gwen, my face is on FIRE!

It's so strange, because earlier I was telling you how I wouldn't have minded if Tom and I had shared a bed at the Swan Inn, and yet here I am now, acting like a naïve, bashful girl once again! I mean the thought of…of sharing a bed with Tom—oh Lord, it thrills me and makes me so nervous, I'm literally trembling! I mean, please don't think I'm afraid of him, because I'm not. I truly believe he'll be a very…caring and gentle lover…and I'm not completely ignorant, I mean I do understand a few things about the male anatomy thanks to my training, but…I suppose what I'm trying to say is…how does a woman _please_ a man? Because everything that we're told comes from the Victorians, which more or less says that a woman's duty is to simply…lie there, and let the man use her body to achieve his satisfaction. But that can't be right! Surely some women must enjoy it too! I mean, you love Edward, and I would imagine that if you didn't enjoy it, you wouldn't be so happy—

…

Oh Gwen, forgive me, I don't mean to pry! Please, do not feel you have to share anything with me that is private and personal if you don't want to. And I promise I will not judge or ask interfering and personal questions about…well, I won't pry further. Just, any advice you could offer, I would be most grateful for.

…

…

Well, I should send this. I apologize for my last letter. I doubt you've even received it yet. I don't even know if this letter will reach you by the time you receive that one, but you can obviously disregard it. I'm sorry if it causes you any distress. I see how it may have; once again, another thing I didn't even consider in my excitement to escape Downton. But I hope you will write me and you may continue to send your letters here. The second I learn that Tom and I will be leaving, you will be the first person to whom I contact. And, if it is possible, I hope that Tom and I may still come and see you before we go to Ireland.

Gwen, thank you. Thank you for being the sweetest and most wonderful friend to me. Because you are; you always were and you continue to be that. I don't know what I would do if I didn't have you to talk to, so thank you, Gwen, thank you so much.

In love and friendship, always,

—Sybil


	140. An Unexpected Ally

_Ok, first I should apologize to some friends and story followers who were eager to see some Sybil/Tom smoochies in this chapter. Sadly, that doesn't happen-YET! But be patient, more smooching is coming, I promise! But remember how once upon a time, I said that Edith would have a BIG part to play for Sybil and Tom's relationship? Well, you'll begin to see what I mean in this chapter ;o) and how it starts to pave the way for some future moments. OK! That's all I'm going to say, don't want to delay you further from reading (it is a long one!) but if you are a fan of "sisterly moments", especially seeing such moments between Sybil and Edith, then I hope you enjoy this!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Forty<strong>

The paper was shaking in her hands. It was crinkling as well. If she weren't careful, she would rip or crumple it. Not that it mattered, really. Who else was she going to show Susan's letter to? There was only one other person who would show any interest in such a thing…and Mary had taken him away for the day, claiming a need for a long shopping trip to both Ripon _and_ Malton.

Sybil rolled her eyes. She knew better. And Mary knew that she knew better, too. But it was a clever scheme. Remove Tom from the equation, so Sybil couldn't escape to the garage for a moment alone. Of course, Mary was also clever to insist that their mother accompany her on this shopping trip; Sybil supposed her sister had done this as a way to silently tell her that Tom was in no danger of being reprimanded by Mary for attempting to run away and marry the youngest Crawley sister; still, a part of Sybil would always be paranoid that Mary would go back on her promise and say something out of the blue, sending Tom packing without an opportunity to say goodbye.

She had hoped that perhaps, like the previous morning, she could sneak out and see Tom before anyone else arose. Yet due to the fact that she hadn't slept the night prior, she slept far too late than she had intended, and was awoken by her own mother, coming in and shaking her, pressing a cool hand against her brow and frowning, muttering something about how she still felt warm, to which Sybil pushed back the covers and insisted she was fine, there was no need to send for Dr. Clarkson.

And that was when she learned about Mary's shopping excursion. Her mother told her everything, how she was accompanying Mary, how Branson would drive them to Ripon and Malton and perhaps another location, depending on what Mary needed. Her mother mentioned something about how it was all for the wedding, but Sybil knew the true reason behind this trip. And as she stepped outside into the corridor and caught her sister's eyes at the end of it, calling for their mother to join her, she could read Mary's true intentions in her dark eyes for this "sudden trip".

Yes, very clever. It was the sort of trick Sybil would pull if she wanted to get Tom all to herself for an afternoon. Had her older sister always been this cunning? Or was it something Mary had picked up from her?

She didn't bother with breakfast—what was the point, she had slept passed it, really. She stayed in her room and nibbled on a few biscuits from the jar next to her bed, and eventually wandered downstairs to join her father for lunch. Edith was nowhere in sight, which Sybil found both strange, as well as a relief. She hadn't dealt with her middle sister since the ride back to Downton from the Swan Inn, and in some ways, she was glad for it. Because despite her anger towards Mary, it was Edith's "betrayal" that truly hurt.

It was Edith who had driven the car to the Swan Inn, and Sybil was so sure that Edith liked Tom, that the two of them had become friends (after all, she had taught Tom how to waltz for the Servant's Ball!) Perhaps she was being too harsh on her sister, but that was what Sybil felt; bitterness for a family to whom she had little hope to coming around and understanding her wishes and desires for the future.

So she ate her lunch in silence, her father making small talk here and there, to which she either smiled or nodded, but never really participated in. And that was when Carson arrived with the post.

"Ah, there's a letter for you, Sybil," her father murmured, passing a small envelope at the top of the pile to her, while examining the rest.

She didn't hesitate, she snatched the letter up and examined the return address, a gasp escaping her throat at the sight. Both Carson and her father turned to her, looking concerned and confused. "Is something wrong?" her father asked.

She quickly shook her head. "No, no, I…it's from Susan," she explained. "I was just pleasantly surprised," she lied. Well, it wasn't a complete lie; she was surprised to finally receive Susan's letter. In all the recent activity over the past few days, she had quite forgotten that she had written to Susan so many days ago.

"Susan? Ah yes, your friend from York," her father murmured, putting on a smile before returning his attention to the rest of the post.

Sybil made her excuses then, and quickly rose from the table, hurrying back to her room and locking the door, where she proceeded to rip open the envelope to read her friend's letter. The very letter she was holding in her hands right now and that was in danger of her ripping it in half, based on the way her fingers trembled while holding it.

Between the questions that littered the letter about what was Sybil concocting, Sybil found Susan's explanation to all of the questions she had asked, about eloping to Gretna Green.

It would all have been for naught.

Apparently, according to Susan, Scottish law required a couple to be residents of Gretna Green for a minimum of twenty-one days before marriage could take place. The law had come into existence sometime in the 1850's, no doubt due to all the scandalous and hasty marriages that were often "romanticized" (or warned about) in pre-Victorian novels. Apparently James had been aware of this, and thus the two of them had made some sort of excuse, saying they were traveling to Scotland to visit "a navy friend" of his, and blaming "the weather" for the reason for their extended stay.

So even if she and Tom had been successful in reaching their destination the other night…they would have been denied, anyway.

She supposed that this revelation should have given her some comfort. _See? It's just as well that you were caught and brought back to Downton. Think how much worse it would have been, to reach Gretna Green and be disappointed that the journey had been for nothing?_ But it didn't give her any comfort. In truth, it just made her feel worse.

_If I had listened to Tom, if I had waited to hear back from Susan, then maybe the two of us wouldn't have tried to run away, and Mary and Edith wouldn't have caught us, and we could secretly plan and prepare for the future without the constant, watchful eyes of my sisters. _

But it was too late. They did know, and they were aware. And even though nothing had been said as far as Sybil could tell, the anxiety she was feeling caused her stomach to reel and her head to ache. She felt as if she may faint from a panic attack! And there was only one person who could truly calm her, and her sister had taken him away! God, how was she going to get through these next few weeks while they waited? It had only been two days, and already, she felt ready to scream!

Just then a knock was heard on the other side of her door.

Sybil groaned and quickly wiped at her eyes, not realizing until that moment that she had been crying.

"Sybil?"

She held her breath as she listened to Edith's voice on the other side. Edith, whom she hadn't spoken to or seen since the night (or morning, really) they had brought her back to Downton. She hesitated, unsure what to say. A part of her wanted to shout, "GO AWAY!" while another part of her was tempted to invite her in, just so she could unleash her anger and anxiety. And then there was a part of her that desperately wanted to feel the comfort of her sister's arms around her, and to cry against her shoulder. Because despite everything that had happened, Sybil felt closer to her middle sister now, than ever before. They had bonded over their work in the convalescent home. Edith shared Sybil's feelings about longing for more in life, and not wanting to simply "go back" to how things had once been. And despite the "betrayal" she felt at her sister driving to the Swan Inn to bring her back, she felt that of the two older Crawley sisters, Edith would be a bit more understanding and sympathetic to her feelings about Tom.

"Sybil?" Edith knocked again.

Sybil sighed and rose from the place she was sitting, walking to her door and unlocking it and opening it just a little.

Edith gave a small smile at seeing her younger sister's face. "Can I come in, please?"

She debated for a moment if she should. But the debate lasted only a few seconds, before she finally opened the door a little wider to let Edith inside. Edith murmured her thanks as she slipped in, and Sybil shut the door behind her, locking it once again. Perhaps she was being a little paranoid, but she truly didn't want anyone, be it a housemaid or a family member, to simply "walk in" before granting her permission.

Edith stood in the middle of the room, looking around as if inspecting to see if any changes had been made. Sybil's suitcase remained in the wardrobe; she had not unpacked it and if she could help it, had no plans to unpack it. She wanted to be ready in case something happened to Tom and she needed to follow. Yet despite the packed suitcase, little change had happened to her room.

Edith turned to face Sybil, putting on a smile, but Sybil could tell her sister looked uncomfortable; as if she hadn't expected to be allowed to enter when she had knocked.

"How are you feeling?" Edith asked, her tone sounding a little too…perky.

"Fine…" Sybil lied, unsure really how to respond. It was clear the question had been asked simply to avoid an awkward silence, but in truth it only made things more awkward. And what did Edith expect her to say? _"If you ignore the fact that I feel like I could scream out of sheer frustration and panic as to what will happen to my fiancée, whom Mary has stolen away for the day, leaving me here to feel like a prisoner, anxious and wondering if something is going to happen and I could wake up tomorrow and find that's gone—arrested or deported without an opportunity to say goodbye…if you ignore all that, I suppose I feel alright."_

"I missed you at breakfast this morning…" Edith continued, nibbling on her bottom lip, her smile beginning to fade.

Sybil didn't quite know what to say, other than the truth. "I overslept," she simply stated.

"Of course…" Edith murmured, and once again, another awkward silence fell upon them.

Sybil groaned, hating this and wondering what the point of it all was. "You weren't at luncheon—"

"No, I…" Edith paused, and Sybil could see that her sister was debating on whether or not she should say whatever it was she was going to say. While a part of her was curious as to what that could be, a majority of her couldn't care less. She was tired, she was stressed, and she could feel her temper beginning to flare.

"Edith," she began, trying her hardest not to snap. "I'm really not in the mood to talk…so…unless there's something you wish to say, I pray that you will say it and leave me be."

Edith looked as if Sybil had struck her. Her eyes went wide and her face paled and she even stumbled back, or so it seemed. Yet she lifted her chin and Sybil bit back the groan, expecting now for her sister to lecture her just as Mary had done, only instead of a lecture…Edith sighed, and then turned and walked to the other end of the room, her hands fidgeting. "Why…" she began, causing Sybil to lift her eyes and look at her sister in confusion. "Why…didn't you tell me?"

Now it was Sybil's turn to look surprised.

"About Branson," Edith continued, as if Sybil didn't know who or what she was talking about. "Why didn't you tell me that…that…" her sister's words trailed off, and she was looking down at her hands which seemed to be nervously twisting a handkerchief.

Sybil sighed, closing her eyes briefly, before opening them and walking towards her sister. "It wasn't the sort of news one just…brings up over tea," she mumbled.

Edith lifted her eyes then, and Sybil was a little surprised by the pain she saw in their depths. "Mary knew," she murmured.

Oh Lord, was _that_ what this was about? "No, no, I…I didn't tell her anything," Sybil sighed. It was a partial lie; technically she had told Mary, but mainly because Mary was clearly suspecting something and she had allowed her frustration over the situation to get the better of her, causing her to blurt it all out that one day so many months ago.

Edith looked confused. "Then how—?"

Sybil groaned and threw her hands up into the air. "Does it matter, Edith? Does it really matter?" she walked over to her bed and in a sense, flopped down, wrapping her arms around herself and wishing again, for the millionth time, that they were Tom's arms wrapped around her. "Mary had her suspicions," Sybil simply muttered. "She cornered me one day, and I admitted…I admitted _some_ of the truth," she explained. What was the point in lying anymore? Her sisters knew her true intentions, even if they didn't believe or agree with them.

Edith lifted a brow at this. "_Some_ of the truth?"

Sybil didn't even bother looking at her. Her eyes were fixed on some spot on the wall. "Yes; I told Mary that Tom loved me, that he has been in love with me for…for a long time," she muttered. "But what I failed to tell her was that _I_ loved _him_…" she paused and let out a long, weary sigh. "The truth is, I have been in love with Tom for so long that…that I couldn't even tell you when exactly it started, it's just been something that's been growing and growing, every day, every week, every month…every year!" she lifted her eyes then to Edith's who was staring back at her intently and in awe as she listened.

"But I was afraid," Sybil continued. "Afraid of what my feelings meant, afraid of the heartbreak that would surely happen…and so I tried to push them aside, I tried to ignore them, I tried to fight them," she paused and let her eyes fall to her feet. "But none of it worked. Because I couldn't stop loving him. And I soon discovered…" she lifted her eyes once more. "That I didn't want to."

Edith bit her lip, and then tentatively approached Sybil, pausing just before she reached the bed. "So…you've kept this all to yourself then?"

Sybil simply nodded. "Well, Gwen knows," she clarified.

Edith's eyes widened. "The housemaid?"

Sybil made a face, but didn't bother correcting her sister. "We've been keeping correspondence; I only told her about my feelings for Tom after she left." Which was true; she didn't feel it was necessary for Edith to know that Gwen had helped both herself and Tom in exchanging letters while she had been in London for her season.

"I see…" Edith murmured, and another silence fell between them. Really, what more was there to say? However, it seemed that Edith still had more to say, as she was by no means ready to leave. "So…you told Gwen…and Mary just found out…and that's it?"

Sybil nodded. She had told Susan too, but she didn't feel that was necessary to explain.

Edith chewed on her lip, and her hands fidgeting once again. "I…I'm surprised, I must admit."

"Edith—"

"That I didn't make the realization myself."

Sybil looked up at her sister with curious eyes. Edith looked down at her, a sheepish smile spreading across her face.

"Only…it all makes sense now, when I think about it."

Now Edith had her full attention. Sybil sat up a little straighter and looked at her sister with a furrowed brow. "What do you mean?"

Without being invited, Edith sat down next to Sybil on the bed. "Just…well, everything really!" she said with a bit of a laugh, throwing her arms up in the air in a mad gesture. "I mean, the way you passionately defended Branson all those years ago, when you had been hurt in Ripon. The way you would always insist on delivering messages to the garage if you were present," Sybil blushed at this bit of news. Oh Lord, had she been that obvious to anyone else? "And don't think I've forgotten that time I announced to the family that I wanted to learn how to drive, and you nearly bit my head off!"

Edith was giggling and Sybil was surprised to find herself smiling back. Yes, she remembered that "conversation" very well, too.

"And Branson, of course; it all makes sense now…"

Sybil frowned a little, simply because she was curious as to what her sister meant. She had also noticed how Edith seemed so…_intrigued_, by this discovery about her younger sister being in love with the family chauffeur.

Edith must have recognized the meaning behind Sybil's expression, because she quickly began to clarify. "Well, when he asked me to teach him how to waltz—and how the _two of you_ waltzed at the Servant's Ball…I mean, I should have realized it then! Especially when I now think back to the conversations we had—"

"What conversations?" Sybil asked, both out of genuine curiosity, as well as need to just hear _something_ about Tom. God, she missed him.

The look Edith gave her contained a bit of a teasing smirk. "Why dear sister," she giggled. "Are you curious to know what Branson said about you during our driving lessons?"

Sybil gave Edith a look, but then found herself bursting out laughing, something she hadn't done since…goodness, since when? Since before she and Tom had tried to run away? There was a part of her that had even wondered if she was capable of laughing and feeling such mirth after everything that had happened.

Edith joined Sybil in her laughter, shaking her head while giggling. "He was…he was always discrete," Edith explained between giggles. "He would sometimes ask 'how does everyone fair?' without specifically singling you out—oh gracious, I do remember though once how you had a cold, he asked me three times within the hour if everything was being done to help you get better."

Sybil felt her cheeks heat up at this revelation. But she also found herself smiling at the sweetness of Tom's concern, and yearning to see him, to hold him, to kiss him and thank him for loving her and being her friend, simply grew all the stronger.

"But actually…" Edith continued, a smile still lingering on her face, but the mirth in her voice giving way to serious contemplation. "I remember how he found me, crying outside on the afternoon of the 11th." Sybil of course knew what she meant by simply saying "the 11th". "It was after learning about Pat—" she paused and swallowed what seemed to be an emotional lump in her throat. "I mean, Major Gordon," Edith corrected. Sybil instinctively moved her hand to take hold of her sister's without a second thought. Edith glanced down and gave a little smile, and soon her fingers with lacing with those of her sister. "Anyway, I was upset…and Branson was there, and very kindly asked if there was anything he could do, and…and I remember looking up at him and simply asking out of the blue, if he had ever been in love."

Sybil's breath caught in her throat. Oh gracious, she knew nothing about this! She tried to think back to that day, and recalled how at one point she had gone out to the garage, only to learn that Tom wasn't there and had taken Edith on a drive. They had never spoken about that day, and he certainly had never told her he had had a conversation with Edith of any kind. She felt her face flooding with color at the thought of poor Tom, in a sense being cornered with such a question. "What…what did he say?"

Edith nibbled her lip, but Sybil saw a smile spreading across her face. "Well…he was a little startled by my question, actually," she grinned. "He stammered rather nervously, if I recall."

Sybil groaned on Tom's behalf, envisioning her poor beloved. "Oh Edith, you didn't tease him, I pray?"

Edith laughed. "No, no, actually, I didn't think a great deal about it. I simply asked because I was looking for someone who could…who could _understand_ the sadness that I was feeling," she explained, her smile sad as she thought back to that day in November. Sybil nibbled her own lip as she listened to her sister; little did Edith realize at that the time, Tom probably could relate very well, when it came to disappointment over one's heart.

Soon another giggle was escaping Edith's lips, and Sybil felt her blush come back as she observed her sister. "What?" she asked, wondering what it was that caused Edith to laugh.

"Oh, just…" Edith began and had to pause in order to get a hold of herself. Whatever it was clearly had her sister in stitches! "Just," Edith began again. "He didn't really give me an answer when I asked him that," she explained. "And I foolishly thought that somehow I had confused him with my question," she paused again, her hand rising to her mouth to conceal her giggles. Sybil simply felt her face grow hotter and hotter. "So I tried to explain, asking him if he had ever fancied a girl back in Ireland."

Sybil blushed deeply at the words. Yes, she couldn't deny that she too had sometimes wondered about this. Did Tom have many sweethearts back in Dublin? Were there girls there pining away and dreaming of the day that Tom Branson would return? She was sure there had to be a few; it was impossible to imagine women not finding Tom attractive.

"He didn't answer me, but what I said next, and the answer he gave to _that_…well, that should have been all the clues I needed."

Sybil frowned. "What…what do you mean?"

Edith only grinned. "I asked him if there was some girl here in England that he fancied, that he thought of as his 'sweetheart'," she teased. "And he simply told me that there was."

Was it possible to blush any brighter? Was there a temperature hotter than "being on fire"? Because surely that was what was happening to her face. Surely she resembled a glowing tomato, and she doubted that the sun itself could be hotter than her cheeks in this moment.

"Tom…Tom said…he said…" she was stammering like a fool. "He said that?"

Edith laughed again and squeezed Sybil's hand affectionately. "Oh Sybil…I had no idea, of course. I never suspected, but…but Lord, it all makes so much sense now!"

They were both laughing again; Sybil's was a little more self-conscious, but the mirth that had been in the room earlier suddenly returned, and Sybil realized that the way Edith had revealed all of this to her hadn't been in a "judgmental light" but rather…in a joyful one. As if, despite the shock and surprise of what had happened two nights ago, she was sharing in her younger sister's happiness at being in love, and having that love returned!

Perhaps there was an ally in her sister?

"Edith…" she began, after their laughter began to die down once more. "I _am_ going to marry him, you know."

Edith's smile began to fade suddenly, but once again, it was not replaced by a look of harshness or even by one of disagreement. She simply looked…worried.

She opened her mouth to ask something, but suddenly closed it. She bit her lip again, and for a moment, another awkward pause filled the room. But unlike before, Sybil held her sister's gaze, and waited for Edith to feel comfortable enough to speak whatever was on her mind at this revelation. And when Edith did speak at last, it was simply to ask, "When?"

Sybil looked down at her hands. "Well…Tom is trying to find work as a journalist," she began.

Edith's widened. "A journalist?"

Sybil nodded. "He likes to write, and he's always loved newspapers, and being political, well it just makes sense. So he's sending articles to various publishes and newspapers in Dublin, but once he receives word—"

"Then you'll be leaving…" Edith whispered.

Sybil simply nodded her head. She didn't trust her voice all of a sudden. Feelings that she thought she had overcome, feelings of regret and sadness for leaving her family behind, suddenly returned. She would miss her sister; dreadfully.

"So until Branson finds work…you'll be staying here?"

Sybil nodded her head again. "Yes, until _Tom_—" she emphasized, wanting her sister to stop thinking of her future brother-in-law as the family chauffeur. "—finds work, we will be staying. And once he does, we will then go to Mama and Papa, _together_," she added. "And tell them everything."

A long, shaky breath escaped Edith's lungs at this revelation. "Gracious," she whispered. "And to think…only a few days ago, he was just the chauffeur."

Sybil wasn't sure how to take those words, but she chose not to start an argument. After all, this was a surprise for her sister, and in truth, Edith was handling it much better than Sybil ever thought she would.

"And you _do_ love him?" Edith murmured, looking at Sybil in such a way, as if making sure this was all being done for the right reasons, whatever those reasons were. "Forgive me, Sybil, I know how that must sound, but…" she paused, unsure exactly how to continue, but once again, instead of allowing herself to be insulted or offended by the question, she simply took her sister's hand in hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"I do," she murmured. "And the only 'inappropriate thing' Tom and I can be accused of doing in the eyes of Society, is allowing ourselves to forget the boundaries Society places, and see one another as equals, _which is what we are,"_ she emphasized rather passionately. "But as I said that night in the inn, when you brought me downstairs and Anna was waiting, I still have my 'virtue'; Tom has been nothing but a gentleman and has not pushed or pressured or committed any act of 'villainy'."

Edith did sigh with relief, but her cheeks quickly flooded with color and she looked down at their clasped hands. "I'm sorry," she murmured, looking rather embarrassed. "Of course, of course he hasn't—and of course you wouldn't stand and let anything of that sort to happen." Sybil couldn't help but smile at this. Edith lifted her eyes once again, and Sybil saw the concern in their depths, but it had changed slightly. "But you best be prepared, both of you," she sighed sadly. "Because that is what people will assume when they learn—"

"Then that's their affair," Sybil muttered. "So long as the people I love, the people I care about know and understand the truth, I couldn't care less what Society thinks."

Perhaps it was a naïve statement to make, but it was true. She had always thought of herself as the unconventional Crawley sister. And no gentleman, no rich and handsome lord, no matter how progressive he was in his politics, would be able to hold a candle to Tom Branson in her eyes. Because no other man could be her equal the way he was.

But even so, it was a lonely thought; the idea that so many would turn their backs and shake their heads upon learning the truth. That the Earl of Grantham's youngest had "run off to Ireland with the former Downton chauffeur". And if Mary's words from months past were true, no one, save a precious few like Gwen and Edward, and Susan and James, would support her and Tom's decision. And even though her two friends and their families had more or less become her family…she still longed for a literal member of the Crawley family to love and accept and if possible, support her and Tom.

"Edith?" she whispered, the emotion rising in her voice. She looked up at her sister, her vision blurring slightly because of the tears that filled her eyes. "Will you…will you stand by us?"

Edith paled slightly, and her eyes widened as she looked at her baby sister. "Oh Sybil…" she whispered, her own eyes beginning to fill with tears. "Sybil, I—"

"I know it's a great deal to ask," Sybil interrupted. A part of her was afraid of hearing the rejection she could see in the depths of Edith's dark eyes. She wanted to delay it as much as possible. "And…and I know this is all rather shocking and perhaps you don't even agree with it—it certainly goes against everything we were taught," she couldn't help but laugh bitterly at the truth in those words. "But he truly makes me happy," she whispered, holding Edith's gaze, her eyes so intense that it would be impossible to look away. "I can't imagine my life with anyone else—_I don't want to be_ with anyone else! I told you that it's true, that I do love him, so much…and I'm not silly or naïve; I know that the life I'll have with Tom, as his wife, will be very different from my life here. But as surprising as it may sound, I'm not afraid! Truly, I'm ready to face such life; I'm ready to embrace it! To work, to live simpler, to—"

"You did say you had found a way out," Edith murmured, recalling the conversation the two of them had had several days ago. Lord, it seemed like a lifetime in some ways. "And you did say it was drastic."

Sybil couldn't help but smile at that memory. "Yes, yes I did," she laughed, pausing to wipe the tears from her eyes. "But I'm ready for it, I am; I'm not afraid, Edith." She squeezed her sister's hands in a gesture that was both loving as well as desperate for understanding. "I'm not asking for you to accept us—although it would fill my heart with such joy if you did," she confessed. "But…but I am asking you to…to support us when we tell everyone," she whispered. "Because I need you; I need my sister," she all but whimpered, the tears threatening to unleash into a full sob. "And…and you're already such good friends with Tom, or at least that's how I see it—"

"Oh Sybil!"

Whatever words Sybil was going to blubber on about were lost, when suddenly she felt her body being seized by the loving arms of her sister, who enfolded her and hugged her tightly. "Of course I will!" Edith gasped between her own sobs. "Of course I will…"

A strange sound escaped Sybil's throat then. She wasn't sure what the sound was, but it was meant to be one of gratitude and thankfulness. Her own arms moved around her sister's body, and they both embraced and hugged one another, crying on each other's shoulders as the emotion of their sisterly bond shook them both.

Finally, after a good, hearty cry, they both began to giggle and lean away from each other, wiping their eyes and their cheeks, taking out handkerchiefs and blowing their noses, before laughing at how red and puffy-eyed they had become.

"Thank you…" Sybil murmured after she felt she could speak once more, without bursting into sobs or laughter.

Edith smiled and squeezed Sybil's hand. "You're very welcome," she assured.

Sybil returned the squeeze. "I'm not asking you to stand up and say anything to Papa when he thunders at us, which I know he will," she groaned, rolling her eyes slightly. "But…but it will be nice to know that there is at least one person in that room who doesn't think Tom and I are mad or horrible people for wanting to follow our hearts."

A small giggle escaped Edith's lips, but then her face grew rather pensive. "Well, I don't think that's entirely true—meaning, that I'll be the only one who will support you," she explained. "Cousin Isobel will support you, I think. And if she does, well, I would think Cousin Matthew would as well."

Sybil nibbled her bottom lip. Was it possible? Isobel did make sense; she was fairly progressive, and it helped that both of her cousins came from a more middle class background where the idea of wanting to marry someone who worked for a living, and thus having to work for a living yourself, wasn't too horrifying.

"And Lavinia will support whatever Matthew thinks," Edith went on.

While Sybil liked Lavinia, the two of them didn't really know each other that well, and that had mainly been of Sybil's doing, simply because she still believed Matthew loved her sister. Yet she liked to think that was true, that Lavinia would agree with Matthew if he saw nothing wrong with her decision to marry Tom. And even though Matthew was fairly close to her father and her sister…she knew he was a man of his own mind, and he certainly was much more progressive than her father in most matters. And perhaps Matthew's decision would have some influence on Mary?

"Sir Richard may even support you, now that I think about it!" Edith added. "After all, if Tom is truly thinking about becoming a journalist, surely he would have some respect for that, being a newspaperman?"

Sybil bit her lip. She didn't like Sir Richard Carlisle and she doubted he would support either her or Tom. After all, he seemed more determined to find acceptance amongst the aristocrats than to go against them. Still…it was possible, she supposed.

"And what about Bran—" Edith paused and blushed. "I mean, Tom," she tried his name for the first time. "I'm sure there are people he knows that would support the both of you."

Edith didn't say the words, but Sybil knew that her sister was referring to the other servants. Yes, surely there were. Mrs. Hughes was a kind woman, and had always seemed to dote on Sybil when she was a child, and she knew the housekeeper seemed fond of Tom (a bond between fellow Celts, perhaps?) She may not agree with it at first, but Mrs. Hughes knew Tom, and knew that he wasn't a letch. She understood Tom's passion, and she certainly understood Sybil's feelings about equality and progress. She would know that this wasn't just some thoughtless romance; Mrs. Hughes would realize that this was genuine; that this was indeed, true love.

Daisy was a good friend of Tom's. She would support him, Sybil was sure of it. And during that brief time before she left for York, Sybil had grown close to both Daisy and Mrs. Patmore, so perhaps the Downton cook would also give them some support, along with the kitchen maid? And Anna—oh Lord, despite helping Edith and Mary bring her back, Anna was a dear friend and Sybil knew she was close to Tom. Anna would support them, and so would Bates, she was sure of it.

"And while she may be shocked at first," Edith went on. "I think…I think Mama would come around."

Sybil's eyes widened at this. She wasn't so sure about that. After all, hadn't it been their mother who kept pushing Mary to find a husband? Yet her mother did seem to have grown fond of Sir Richard, all of a sudden, and he certainly wasn't "one of them" in the sense of his background and education. Sir Richard was a self-made man…just like her Grandfather Levinson.

…Perhaps Edith was right? Maybe their mother would come around and accept Tom?

"So you see?" Edith murmured, squeezing Sybil's hands. "The two of you aren't as alone as you might think."

Sybil smiled and reached forward, hugging her sister, so grateful that she had allowed Edith into her room and that she had opened up and sought her out for support. The weight of the world didn't seem so heavy now.

"And forget that thing Mary said," Edith added, rolling her eyes slightly. "I think my prospects for finding a husband have long since passed."

Sybil's face paled. She remembered those words that Mary had thrown at her; words that had sickened her and made her feel utterly terrible and guilty. "Oh Edith—"

"It's alright," Edith assured, putting on a smile though Sybil could tell it was strained. "I'm not beautiful like you or Mary—"

"Edith!" she refused to hear her sister, who after so lovingly telling her she would support the two of them, berate herself. "You _are_ beautiful…_both_ inside and out. And you have proved that you are the most radiant, gorgeous person on the planet! And I don't just mean for saying that you will stand by and support Tom and me, but for all the help you provided to the officers who stayed here and for looking after dear William, and for—"

"Alright, alright," Edith muttered, blushing and waving a hand, turning her head slightly to keep herself from getting emotional. "You've made your point, thank you," she murmured, looking a little embarrassed.

Sybil's smile was sad, because she knew that her sister had struggled with finding happiness, at least in the sense of romance. Of the three Crawley sisters, Edith was the born romantic, and she had dearly loved Patrick. And Sybil knew how desperately Edith had wanted Major Gordon to be their cousin, and how despite his horrible scars, she was prepared to love him just as deeply as she had all those years ago, when they were children. Edith deserved happiness; both her sisters did. They deserved to know the sort of happiness that she felt with Tom.

"What are you going to do now?" Edith asked, her question bringing Sybil back to the present.

"What?" Sybil asked, looking confused.

"You and…Tom," Edith explained, still trying to get used to referring to Tom by his Christian name. "I mean, I know you said that you're waiting for him to receive word from a newspaper, but…until then, what will you do?"

By the way her sister phrased her question, Sybil realized that Edith wasn't asking her what they would do with their day to day lives. Tom would continue working as usual, just as he was doing today, and she would begin her own work as well, in learning how to properly look after herself, her future husband, and any children the two of them would have, in a life vastly different from that of Downton. But that wasn't what Edith had meant, Sybil realized.

"I…I don't know," Sybil answered, looking down. "As far as I'm aware, it's just you, Mary, and Anna who know. And while I do feel better knowing that you are our side, and I like to think Anna will be as well, or at least that Anna will not say anything unless either you or Mary tell her too, Mary will be watching, and…and I don't know if she'll let us…" her words trailed off then. Despite her personal feelings towards Mary at the moment, she didn't want to incite another reason for her two older sisters to go at each other's throats.

Edith simply nodded her head. "Yes, I'm sure you're right," she murmured. "And I don't think sneaking around will do either of you any good—nor will it help your case when you and Br—Tom, go before Mama and Papa."

No, she supposed not. But she couldn't bear the thought of being parted from him for days on end. At least in the past, she had her work as a nurse to distract her from her longing to see and be beside him, but now, especially after confessing her feelings to him at last, she felt lost and needful.

"I think I have an answer!"

Sybil looked at her sister in surprise, especially by the bubbly way in which she spoke. Truly, she looked and sounded excited!

"Let's go to London," Edith announced with a grin.

Sybil's stared at her sister with wide, disbelieving eyes. "London?"

Edith's grin only grew and she nodded her head with a great deal of enthusiasm. "We'll go and spend some time with Aunt Rosamond for a few days. Who cares if it's before the Season begins? It's been so long since we had this opportunity to travel because of our duties to the Convalescent Home. Let's go, the two of us!"

Sybil stared at Edith as if her sister had just told her that she was in direct line for the thrown. Where had this idea come from? And why was she bringing it up now? After everything they had discussed…and after everything Sybil had revealed, about how difficult she felt it was going to be, to be parted from Tom, to be forced to stay away from him. Did Edith misunderstand her? Had she not explained herself very well? She wasn't looking for a distraction, but a solution! A way in which both she and Tom could be together without having to worry about prying eyes and gossiping tongues.

"Edith, I don't think—"

"Sybil," Edith took her by the shoulders and forced her to turn and look directly into her sister's eyes. "Just hear me out…and listen carefully," she explained. "I think this is exactly _what you need_ right now. A chance to _get away_ from Downton. And because it will be before the Season, you won't have to worry about _running into anyone_ who knows Mama and Papa, or at least knows them that well. Do you understand?"

Sybil stared at Edith, her eyes gazing back into hers and her mind reading the meaning behind her words.

And even though she wasn't entirely sure what her sister was planning, she found herself nodding her head in agreement. "Yes," she murmured. "Yes…alright, I'll go."

Edith grinned. "Excellent! Because I did ring Aunt Rosamond earlier to ask if we could visit."

Sybil stared at her. "WHAT?"

Edith laughed. "It was one of the reasons I had wanted to speak with you; I had intended on making that suggestion, regardless of what you told me, but now…" her grin was most mischievous. "Now, I must say, it's even better."

Sybil lifted a brow. "What are you scheming exactly?"

Edith laughed again, before leaning in and kissing Sybil's cheek. "You'll just have to wait and see," she grinned before rising from the bed and walking towards the door to let herself out. "And how does next Thursday sound? A little holiday to London, Thursday to Sunday?"

Sybil swallowed, still confused as to what her sister was concocting, and yet she felt hope rise in her heart. "That sounds lovely…in fact I wish it were tomorrow, if I must be honest."

Edith grinned. "Just be patient, it will be here soon enough."

Patient. Yes, that was something she was trying to perfect. Tom was much better at it than her.

"Oh, and Sybil?" Edith paused just as she was about to leave. "Not that I think this will be an issue, but do be sure to pack…well, to pack some of your 'plainer' dresses."

Sybil's eyebrows rose at this. "My 'plainer' dresses?"

Edith simply grinned and nodded her head. "Yes, for once, I would say this is an occasion to leave the pants behind."

* * *

><p><em>According to Wikipedia, in 1856 Gretna Green changed its laws where a person had to be a resident of the area for a minimum of 21 days before they could get married. Therefore had Sybil and Tom succeeded in making it to their destination, they would have been unable to marry that very night like they had been hoping. Only as "recently" as 1977, was the law for residency lifted.<em>


	141. Branson's Journal XVII

_New chapter, new Part! We now move into that "waiting" period between episodes 2x07 and 2x08. According to the show, 2x07 was "early 1919" (therefore I assume January) and in 2x08 we understand that three months have passed and now it's April. So what happened during that period of waiting for Tom and Sybil? That's what Part II will explore, and here we will begin to see some of the "adventures" our couple will encounter ;o) _

_I dedicate this chapter to Dustedoffanoldie who told me she needed the next chapter ASAP! More will come, but here is a taste of what to expect in those future chapters. Thanks for reading and reviewing and enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>Volume III, Part II<strong>

_Late Winter/Early Spring, 1919_

**Chapter One-Hundred and Forty-One**

January 23, 1919

It's been three long and grueling days since I—since _we've_ returned to Downton. Three days where Lady Mary Crawley has certainly done her best to keep me and her sister as far from each other as possible. And she's quite clever about it. I keep thinking she's going to finally just come and have it out with me herself, that one morning she'll come down to the Servant's Hall and point an accusing finger at me in front of everyone else, or I'll look up from whatever engine I'm working on, and find her standing there in the garage doorway, looking proud and stern and threatening me to stay as far away from Sybil as possible. I keep waiting and expecting this explosion of anger and emotion…

But it still hasn't happened. And I'm beginning to wonder if it ever will?

At times I find myself tempted to speak to her myself, to just tell her that I know what she's trying to do, arranging all these sudden trips where she needs me to drive or a member of her family somewhere. The day after returning to Downton, I was told I would be taking both her and Lady Grantham to Ripon and Malton for some sort of shopping trip that in the end swallowed up my entire day. Yesterday, she ordered the motor again, this time dragging both her Ladyship and Old Lady Grantham to visit several estates that apparently she and Sir Richard are considering, if he changes his mind about this Haxby Park. And this morning, I learn that Pratt has been given a "holiday" of sorts, because Lady Mary heard him "cough", and somehow managed to convince her Ladyship to let Pratt have some time off, for fear that he may be coming down with Spanish Flu of all things.

So now I am the only chauffeur at Downton. So for any trip, no matter how mundane the reason may seem, I am being kept busy. Busy and away from the house, which in truth translates to being kept away from Sybil.

Oh yes, I am very aware of Lady Mary's game. And God, it would give me no greater pleasure than to tell her I see what she's doing and more or less…just…call her out to meet me at dawn with pistols for two! Because that's what it feels like! Like I'm in some sort of duel for Sybil! I mean, I can't deny I always thought it would be difficult; I always assumed I would have to battle off some potential suitor if I wanted to win her hand. But I never thought the person I would have to battle for Sybil's attention would be her own sister!

…

I find myself both despising Lady Mary Crawley…as well as admiring her for her cunning.

…

…

Oh Sybil…

How tempting it is to retreat outside, to go stand beneath that tree and pray that she would look and see me and come to me once again, like she had done that morning three days ago.

The only reason I haven't is because the weather has gotten colder every night, and as dearly as I love her, Sybil does have this annoying habit of coming to me, be it under a willow tree to my cottage without anything on her feet and in nothing but her nightclothes. And as…alluring (and God, she truly is), to see and behold her in that intimate state, I'll not give her cause to catch a cold…or worse.

…

I…I don't think I would ever tell her this, because I know it would infuriate her, but…I am grateful that she's no longer a nurse, at least right now. With all the news I read in the paper about Spanish Flu, I just…

…

…

Last night I had one of the worst nightmares in my life. Sybil, sick with flu, her hair and body drenched in sweat, lying on a bed and gasping for breath, her beautiful skin turning an ugly ashen color…and…and me, standing by, being completely powerless…

…

…

…

I don't know why I even brought it up. Suppose I had hoped that by writing my greatest fear down, I would somehow overcome it. But I don't think that's a fear any man can overcome.

…

Anyway, I'm grateful for right now, that she's not working at the hospital. Although in all fairness, I haven't heard of any cases of Spanish Flu affecting the village; I pray we can remain so lucky.

But that is one reason I do not take my usual nightly walks, especially as it's grown colder, for fear she will join me at the expense of her own health. And while it would be heaven—nothing but the sweetest heaven, to hold her again, to kiss her, to just be near her and talk to her—I will not give her family such an excuse that I only care about myself and the pleasure I can receive…and not about her wellbeing.

Of course, that being said, they would argue that if I truly cared about her wellbeing, I would "let her go" so she could marry a man "worthy" of her, which really means marry a man of her class, with a title, estate, and fortune. Little do they understand that that is exactly why I intend to marry Sybil; not only because I love her, but also for her wellbeing. I do want to prove to her family that I _more_ than just a chauffeur, but if I allow myself a moment to believe it, I find myself smiling and nodding my head at the words Sybil spoke me that beautiful morning three days ago: I _am_ worthy of her. I am worthy of her because we are each other's equals. And while I may be a working class Irishman who will never be able to give her a home as lavish as Downton Abbey, I know my sweet Sybil; and that's not the life she wants, nor is the life that will bring her happiness and joy.

…

Still, this distance is driving me mad. I wonder how she is fairing? Is she handling it any better? Or does she feel the need to throw her head back and scream? Lady Mary hasn't confronted me (at least not yet) but I can't help but wonder if she's confronted Sybil?

Sybil wasn't wrong; we _are_ being observed and watched. And as tempting as it is to meet for a midnight rendezvous, I will not give Lady Mary or anyone else an excuse that I'm sort of…Lothario, out to seduce the youngest Crawley girl and "ruin her" so that she has no choice but to marry me. No, I will not fall prey to that trap; I will not allow either of us to be accused of such a crime when we go before her family.

But still…I miss her. I miss her and I ache for her. Just the touch of her hand or…or even just a note, with her handwriting, telling me simply that she loves me and is thinking of me, too.

I was hoping that was what this unmarked letter was, that I found hidden in the toolbox when I returned the car to the garage this evening after driving his Lordship to York. The engine had made some sort of sound that wasn't to my liking, so after returning I thought I would try to see what the problem was and went to get my tools—only to find a piece of paper, delicately folded and hidden within.

I can't begin to describe the joy I had at finding that letter…

…Nor can I describe the disappointment I felt when I realized it wasn't her handwriting.

But…if not from her, then from who? It's a strange letter; telling me to go and insist on some "holiday time" that I am owed, and going so far as to recommend that I take this time near the end of next week. It sounds like the sort of scheme Sybil would concoct, but…I know her pen, I know her handwriting and this isn't it. And I can't imagine she would go and ask someone else to write down her words, at least not without telling me. And who would do that? While I'm grateful for what Anna said to me about thinking Sybil and I are suited for each other, I can't imagine her going so far as to "help" us like this. And even if she had, she would say something—Anna would come and give me the note, not just leave it secretly in the toolbox. And I can't imagine anyone else helping; Lord knows I love Daisy like she were one of my sisters, but she can't keep a secret. So…who could this be from?

There are instructions in this letter; directions on what I should do with this "holiday time". I'm even assured that this time will be granted to me, but how can someone guarantee that? Especially after Lady Mary convinced her Ladyship to give Pratt some of that time? Unless Pratt returns next week, which is possible I suppose, but…

God, I hope this isn't Lady Mary playing with my head. Perhaps I haven't given her cunning enough credit?

But in all seriousness, what if it is? What if this is some…elaborate trap, to lure me out and do something stupid?

...

…

Good God, listen to me. I'm starting to sound like my Uncle Michael, God rest his soul, and all the conspiracies he believed about the bloody English.

…

But if this wasn't from Sybil…then who? And there was money inside the letter! Not a massive amount, but…why? Who is doing this? Why are they doing this? But the most mysterious part about the entire thing, and the thing that truly makes me wonder who the author of this letter is, is that it strictly urges me to say NOTHING to Sybil. That this is all some sort of secret…

…

…

I honestly don't know what to do. My instincts tell me to somehow try and seek Sybil out and ask her if she sent this to me and tell me her reasons why…but there's a voice in my head that's warning me to ignore it, that nothing good can come of it.

…Then there's a voice in my heart telling me to stop asking questions, and just…try to follow the instructions that are given.

…

…

Is it worth the risk? We're so close now, her and me; so close to having what we want, just a few more weeks, surely, and then we can go. I don't want to jeopardize any of that, I don't want to give any of them excuses.

And yet, God help me, I miss her. I need her; more so now than before.

At least before, I was ignorant to how she truly felt. I believed that she loved me, but I didn't know for certain. Now I do. And it's tearing me apart, knowing that she wants me just as much as I want her…and that she's so close, only so many yards away and yet now, _now_, after everything that's been revealed…

Maybe I should take the risk?

The letter has no name, other than _"A Friend"._ Would an enemy go to all this trouble to simply capture me? While Lady Mary is cunning, that does not seem like the sort of thing she would do. Her approach would be much more direct.

So who is this mysterious friend? This benefactor who has left me money, who urges me to seek out his Lordship and ask for a two day holiday at the end of next week?

…And _why_ am I being directed to go to London's Regent's Park?

* * *

><p><em>Hmmmmm...who could this mysterious letter be from? What do YOU think it's all about? WHY is Tom being directed to go to London? ;o)<em>

_...and what do you think will happen? (Or perhaps, what do you WANT to happen?)_


	142. Sybil's Diary XXXIII

_Sorry for the delay! This is the problem when you write multiple fics, you get caught up in an update frenzy for one and then you end up neglecting the other. Ah well! Anyway, this chapter is the "precursor" to Sybil's London holiday. Pay special attention; there's a clue given in this chapter as to what may happen. And I highly recommend that you consider rereading the previous chapter if it's been a while for you, because there's a clue in that one too ;o) I would like to dedicate this chapter to **Dustedoffanoldie**, who politely "begged" me to update ;o) THIS IS FOR YOU MY DEAR! Thanks for reading and please leave a review if you would be so kind!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Forty-Two<strong>

January 30, 1919

The sheets feel strange—very cold and stiff. The mattress is a little too soft, as well as the pillows. It's almost impossible to sit up and write this…let alone lay back and read.

…

Oh gracious, how can I…?

…

…

Right, I'm sitting at the dressing table now, giving up completely on writing in bed. While I would love nothing more than to recline against some pillows after a long journey of sitting in a train car, I'm afraid the mattress will swallow me whole if I dare do anything but lie flat on my back. Now I remember why I was never completely fond of staying at Aunt Rosamond's.

It's late, nearly midnight. We arrived in London at half-past four, greeted by Aunt Rosamond's driver. I was surprised to see that she wasn't there, but Peters, her driver, told us that she had an "unexpected" call from Lord Hepworth, an old friend of hers. The name meant nothing to me, but Mary's eyes seemed to widen with surprise at the mention.

…

Yes, Mary…my dear, ever watchful sister is with us.

Last week, after Edith had told me about joining her on a special holiday to London, she announced to everyone at dinner that she and I were going to spend some time with Aunt Rosamond in London for a few days. Mama's face lit up, and she murmured something about how wonderful it would be to go and see the city, but Edith was quick to remind Mama about her promises to Cousin Isobel, in helping her with her refugee work. I will not deny, I was grateful to Edith for "interfering" in trying to convince Mama not to come. I suppose that sounds harsh, especially considering that…that in the very near future, we shall be parted…but…I don't know, I suppose I thought it would be even more difficult in saying goodbye, after spending some time alone in London. Edith went on to explain how she thought this would be a good time for the two of them as sisters to bond and have a "girls holiday".

And that was when Mary spoke up.

Lord, the haughty way in which she spoke and lifted an eyebrow at us. _"Am I not allowed to attend this sisterly holiday?"_

…

I remember glancing desperately at Edith, no doubt making my displeasure at the thought of Mary joining us quite obvious to her.

And Edith did try, mentioning something about how it was going to be an opportunity where both she and I could shop for a wedding present without having to worry about spoiling the surprise for Mary. She gave a little giggle then, and said she would stay as far away from Oxford and Bond Street as possible, but then made some sort of mention about how she needed to see and go over plans with Sir Richard, and so if Aunt Rosamond was expecting the two of us…why not make it three?

After all that, really, what more could be said without being COMPLETELY obvious?

So Mary has joined us and is settled in the room next to mine. At least she'll be spending a majority of her time with Sir Richard tomorrow; leaving both Edith and I in peace.

…

Lord, I hate feeling like this; I don't like resenting her, I truly don't, I love my sister, I…I'm going to miss her so much when we leave, but…but I…I just can't help it. If only she would _try_ to understand…

…

…

It was an awkward train ride, I cannot deny. Edith sat next to me and Mary directly across from us. She had a book on her lap and was pretending to read, as was I, but I kept glancing up and finding her eyes upon me, as if she were…studying me, carefully. She made no excuses, nor did she act embarrassed when I looked back at her (glared back at her is more like it). She simply put on a small smile, and resumed reading, but I was never able to relax, not when I could feel her eyes upon me every few minutes.

Yes, I think that's partially why I'm so exhausted, even though I did very little today. I don't know what game Mary is playing at, if she's trying to intimidate me or what. Perhaps it's because she knows that I went to see Tom two days ago?

Well so what? He is my fiancé after all, and I will not hide that from my sisters; why should I? They know that I'm serious in marrying him, even if they (well, Mary really) do not agree with my decision.

…But I hate it, nonetheless. I hate being only partially truthful with certain members of my family, while I continue to lie and deceive my parents.

But Tom's right.

We need to be smart and practical right now, we need to "have our ducks all in a row", as Mrs. Patmore would say, because sadly, I know they will "toss" Tom out once the truth is made known. And on the day he goes…so too will I.

So yes, yes, we must wait, at least until he has heard some good news from one of the newspapers he's applied to.

…I just hope it's soon.

…

I keep wondering if this was a good idea, letting Edith convince me to go with her to London. She's clearly up to something, but I'm not sure what it is exactly. But during this past week, when I looked like I was faltering on whether or not to still go, she would squeeze my hand, or murmur something that was meant to be "hopeful" and "encouraging", and I found myself smiling and nodding my head, resigned to the go through with the holiday. I hate the thought of being away from Tom, but…maybe this will be better? Simply because the distance will actually be a literal distance, as opposed to driving ourselves mad because we're so close, but the possibilities of seeing each other have been so scarce.

Up until this morning, Pratt has been away, which means Tom has been left with all the driving duties. Good God, even before Papa hired Pratt, I don't remember Tom's schedule being so busy! And it's more than just driving Mama or Papa or Granny (or Mary, for that matter) around, but all the maintenance and upkeep he must attend to with the motors, or any special errands that need to be run—Edith has tried to help, at least with the errand running, but our parents, or Granny or Mary will not let her drive them. And Mary has been like a constant shadow, just as I feared she would be. I've wanted to turn on her and scream, but somehow I've managed to hold my tongue and keep my temper…just barely, though.

It truly has gotten to the point where I don't care if she sees me going out to the garage. The only reason I haven't tried more is for Tom's sake. Mary has kept her promise to not say anything, to leave myself to doing that, but for how long? I'm sure if she feels "provoked", she will go to Papa or Carson or worse, _both_, and then what? So as hard as it has been, I've managed to restrain myself…until two days ago.

A few nights ago I overheard Mama and Papa talking in the drawing room before dinner. Lately I've been paying very little attention to any conversations that they have, but my ears perked up at the mention of Tom's name.

Pratt would be returning on the day we were to leave for London. And Tom would also be granted some "brief" holiday time, for all the extra work he performed while Pratt was away. So while I was in London with Edith (and Mary), Tom would also be away. But doing what? Where would he go? To visit Gwen? Oh Lord, how I desperately wished I could have figured out some way to get him to come to London with us, but I know that's impossible. Still, upon hearing this news, I was more determined than ever to find a way to speak with him. So the following morning, before breakfast, I marched to the Servant's Hall, not caring if Anna saw me (although she wasn't there; which could only mean she must have been attending to either Edith or Mary) and released a long held sigh of relief at seeing Tom sitting at the table, holding the newspaper.

I cannot deny how tempting it was to just…throw my arms around him and kiss him!

I can't help giggling at the thought, and God knows I had to reach out and grip the doorframe to the room to keep myself from doing just that. He looked so handsome, and he clearly hadn't realized that I had entered until after everyone who was there rose to their feet; he was lost in thought, reading whatever article had captured his attention, his brow all wrinkled in concentration. Oh how I wanted to kiss that brow...

Once he did realize I was there, the look on his face was priceless.

He rose to his feet, his eyes wide, his face slightly pale, and he almost breathed out my name! Not "milady", but _MY NAME!_ But he caught himself just in time.

Oh Tom; are you struggling the same way I am?

I wonder; did he have to grip the table to keep himself from taking me in his arms and kissing me back? I can still taste his lips…if I close my eyes, I can almost feel them…moving over my own…full and warm and smooth…

…

…

…

Oh gracious! I nearly let the ink bleed through the paper!

…

…

Much better. Good heavens, I must be more careful. Or at least wait until I'm tucked away in bed before allowing myself to think of Tom's lips.

…

…

Lord, my face is so hot! But I can't stop grinning.

…

I made my excuse, saying that I needed to speak with Branson about a possible journey to Ripon before going to London. Everyone else resumed eating their breakfast or working on whatever task they were working on before I entered, and Tom simply nodded his head and rose to walk with me to the garage to "plan our journey".

…

The second we were alone in the safety of the garage, my wish was granted.

…

Yes…I'm remembering his kiss very, very clearly now. And his arms, how they feel when they wrap around my body, their strength, the press of his muscles…oh God, it's still January, and yet I feel the need to open a window!

Our embrace, our kiss, it wasn't as long as I wished it could have been, but it was beautiful as I knew it would be, because it was with him. And after a week of not feeling his arms around me, of not being able to hold him, of being denied the taste of his lips…well, all I can say is that the experience was nothing but heavenly.

I told him that I missed him, that I loved him, and I asked him if he had heard anything yet (between the moments he allowed me to speak when he wasn't kissing me). He grinned that handsome, roguish grin of his, and with his brow pressed to mine told me that he missed me and loved me too, and that no, he hadn't received any news yet, but that it shouldn't be long. Oh Tom, you're always so hopeful and faithful; I wish I could be more like you.

I then told him I had learned about his upcoming holiday, and asked him what he would do? He was strangely quiet, and at first I thought he hadn't heard me (after all, he did seem rather transfixed with my lips), but before I repeated the question, he simply said he would be doing some traveling, but that was all, nothing more detailed than that.

It makes little sense that he wouldn't tell me about going to visit Gwen. And…I honestly don't know who else he would go to travel to see. And…for some reason, his eyes seemed to avoid mine. I tried to question him further, but he used his kisses as a means to distract me (and Lord help me, they are _very_ distracting! I must somehow build immunity to them, otherwise he will use his kisses to try and win every argument!)

…Not that I think that's possible, building immunity to his kisses.

…

…But I'm willing to try if that means I must spend many long hours, kissing him.

…

I need to be careful, I keep giggling and squealing, and if I'm too loud, Mary will barge in and question why I'm as red as a strawberry in spring.

Yes, it was shortly after that distracting kiss that she found us. Tom's ears must have sensed that she was near, because he released me and took a step back just when she entered the garage, a deep, disapproving frown on her face.

I suppose I shouldn't have, but…I did smile rather smugly at her, knowing that strands of my hair had come undone, my blouse was wrinkled, and my lips were swollen from the intensity of our kissing. And Tom…well, there were slight traces of lipstick on his lips. Indeed, the two of us were a sight to behold, but neither one of us seemed to care.

I'm laughing as I remember the way he looked at me, asking, "is there anything else you need milady?" to which I politely declined, murmuring about how I was satisfied…for the moment.

The look on Mary's face was priceless! But it was worth it. And without another word, I walked right up to her, looped my arm through hers, and led her away from the garage before she could bombard Tom with threats. Let her take her displeasure out of me, but leave my fiancée alone.

Surprisingly, she was quiet. She sent me many disapproving glares throughout the day, and made no secret that she was watching over my shoulder at every moment, but I didn't care. I don't care. She's not going to stop us, and she's not going to change my mind!

…

I love Mary, I really do. We've always been close and she was always being very…_protective_ of me.

Lord, how I remember her keeping a close watch on me whenever the Grey's visited; she never liked Larry or the way he would sometimes hover a little too close. When I was fifteen he tried to kiss me, and thankfully Mary arrived in time to interrupt, which gave me the opportunity to slip away before he could try again. His breath stank of gin, and his hand tried to touch…well, once again, I'm grateful to Mary and always will be. She even came to my room later that night and held me close and let me cry, not asking any questions, simply murmuring how she would never let anyone hurt me.

…

I suppose…I suppose that's what she's doing now.

In her own way, she's trying to protect me. She doesn't know Tom; she doesn't know that he's completely the opposite of Larry Grey, or any man I've ever met. And…and I suppose I can't blame her for sadly assuming that he's "an evil seducer", since that's what novels teach us about "the wicked pauper" who tries to lure and seduce unassuming wealthy young girls into marrying them, so they can steal their fortunes and leave them pregnant and helpless, without a friend in the world.

But all those novels, all those "lessons" that we've been told, like ghost stories around a dying fire, are completely false. At least they are when it comes to Tom Branson. Because he loves me; he truly, genuinely loves me, and I love him. And he would never hurt me, either. I know that, deep in my heart, I know that to be true. And God willing, Mary will know that to be true as well.

But she doesn't yet. And I think that's why she keeps such a close watch. She's afraid he'll ruin my life, when in truth, he'll _complete_ it.

I just…my one wish, before Tom and I leave Downton, is for Mary to understand. For her to trust me, to be reassured that not only do I know what I'm doing, but that truly, Tom is a wonderful man.

I appreciate her love and friendship, I do…and yes, even now, though I confess she is vexing me a great deal at the moment. But I do love my sister, and I am thankful for all that she's done…but the time has come for her to see that I am not a small child or that frightened fifteen-year-old girl to whom she comforted all those years ago.

I'm strong and able to watch out and protect myself, to trust my own instincts and make my own decisions. Even if those decisions are not the sort that a woman from "my world" would normally make.

…But then again, I never really fit in with that world to begin with.

…

Dinner tonight was…interesting.

Aunt Rosamond wasn't even at her house when Peters brought us back. The housekeeper made us tea while we went to our rooms to freshen up, and about an hour had passed after arriving, before she finally came back. Heaven knows Granny would not approve (and it was clear that Mary did not approve, either). But despite her apologies and her telling us how embarrassed she was for not being there to greet her nieces, it was clear from the way her cheeks glowed and the smile she wore, that she was not sorry in the slightest for being otherwise "occupied" with this Lord Hepworth.

I wonder…is Aunt Rosamond in love?

I don't remember much about my Uncle Marmaduke; I know Granny wasn't very keen on him, but then she wasn't necessarily keen with Mama, either. The only time I ever hear Aunt Rosamond speak of Uncle Marmaduke is when she's defending him to Granny, but other than that, I can't say I've ever heard her mention him as "a great love".

Perhaps I've been spoiled? Perhaps, because of Tom, I've come to expect more when it comes to both love and marriage. I can't imagine spending my life with someone I don't fully respect, or who I feel is my friend and equal. And Tom is those things to me, as well as so much more. And…and I don't mean to speak ill of my uncle, but…perhaps Lord Hepworth can give Aunt Rosamond those things? Friendship, respect, as well as love?

However, based on the way Mary seemed to look down her nose at the mention of his name, I can't help but wonder if there's something unappealing about him? Or is that just Mary being like Granny?

Perhaps I'll soon find out? While she didn't say, Aunt Rosamond did hint that there may be an opportunity while we are visiting for us to meet Lord Hepworth. While she was having tea with him (which was the answer as to why she wasn't there to greet us when we arrived) a discussion came up about going to the theatre on Saturday. She said that Lord Hepworth may even be able to secure us a box, and then she turned to Mary and told her that she absolutely must bring Sir Richard if we do go.

Oh lovely.

Dinner was actually rather awkward. If Aunt Rosamond wasn't going on about Lord Hepworth, she would ask all of us questions about what was happening back at Downton. Thankfully, most of those questions were directed at Mary, asking her about how the arrangements were going for the wedding, if she and Sir Richard had finally agreed on a date, and whether or not they were truly going to purchase Haxby Park? She then moved the conversation to London town houses that she knew were available…but not before turning to both Edith and myself and asking us if we had any "news" to share.

…And by news she meant beaus.

I remember turning ghostly pale at the question, before grabbing my napkin and acting as if I were having a coughing spasm so as to explain the sudden blush in my cheek. Both of my sisters looked embarrassed on my part, but I also saw what can only be described as a look of mischief in _both_ their eyes. Well, I'm glad I'm able to provide them with such "entertainment".

Good God, what will tomorrow night be like? Will Aunt Rosamond want to discuss the upcoming season? Will she insist on sponsoring me and taking me to several prominent balls where once again my worth can be measured by the cut of my gown and the number of gentlemen I have on my dance card?

Oh Tom, please, please let it be soon that we can go!

...

At least I'll have the day tomorrow to prepare myself.

Mary will be spending a bulk of the day with Sir Richard; Aunt Rosamond will have luncheon with them, before going once again to see Lord Hepworth. Edith is being very kind, saying that we can go and do things that I wish to do and see, such as visit any museums that I like, which is very sweet of her to offer, since I know she's not fond of them as I am. Still, I did promise her we could stop on Bond Street for a few hours; she liked this very much. And as much as I appreciate her making such a "sacrifice", I'm not entirely sure I can enjoy it.

…I always thought that the next time I came back to London, Tom would be with me.

…

I wonder what he'll be doing tomorrow on his holiday?

…

…

Lord, look at the amount of pages I've filled! Perhaps I should buy a new diary while I'm here? I should stop and get some sleep. Edith wants to take a stroll through Regents Park tomorrow after breakfast. Perhaps I can convince her to let us visit the zoo? It's been so long since we visited there, and it would be nice to see the animals again.

Well, as I said, I should stop and get some sleep. After all, the sooner I am under the covers, the sooner I can give in to the sweet memories of Tom's kisses…

* * *

><p><em>Ooohhh did anyone notice a connection mentioned here at the end between this chapter and the last? ;o)<em>


	143. Friday in the Park with

_The next few chapters will be dedicated to Sybil's holiday in London. Now, is everyone ready? Do you all think you know what will happen? Were you able to make any certain "connections" between the last few chapters? Well let's see if you guessed correctly ;o) Also, I'll make mention in this chapter and the in the next couple to a few characters of my own creation that I briefly mentioned in the chapters regarding Sybil's London season. Anyway, I HOPE YOU ENJOY! Not to sound smug, but I have a feeling you will ;o)_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Forty-Three<strong>

Sybil groaned as she heard a light knocking on her bedroom door. Her eyes lazily opened and she shifted slightly on the bed, frowning as she felt her body sink further into the extremely soft mattress. She tried her best to sit up, which was proving to be rather difficult. "Come in," she grumbled, still struggling.

Edith's perfectly coiffed head peeked inside. "You're still in bed?" she clucked her tongue in a way Sybil had heard Mrs. Patmore do to Daisy.

Sybil frowned and squinted towards the clock that rested on the mantle above the small fireplace. "What time is it?"

"Nearly half-past nine; come on, sleepy head," her sister giggled. "You don't want to waste the day away in bed."

Sybil groaned and flopped back down onto the mattress, her head nearly engulfed the too-soft pillow. She didn't sleep very well at all last night, and she had a feeling that despite the lovely sunshine streaming through her window, she was going to be a foul mood. Still, she knew Edith was right, she should get up, after all, she didn't want to spend any more time lying in this bed than she had to! So with another groan, she pushed the blankets back and swung her bare feet around the side in an effort to get up.

"I'll come back in a few minutes; we can go downstairs for breakfast together, I just need to collect a few things," Edith explained. "Oh! And Sybil? Just…wear something simple; nothing fancy."

She frowned as she watched her sister shut the door after leaving with these parting words. She remembered how Edith had reminded her to only pack "plain clothes" for their walking journeys through London. It made sense to Sybil; after all, a fancier dress would simply get in the way, yet she did find it strange, the way her sister would always murmur little things like this. What was the purpose behind Edith's words? She sighed, deciding not to dwell on it a great deal; all would be revealed in time, no doubt. She washed her face, put on a simple lilac and white striped blouse and her dark blue skirt, and pulled and twisted her hair back into a simple ponytail. It was daring, she knew, letting her hair hang down like this while planning to go out, but she smiled at her reflection, liking how it looked, and was smoothing it when Edith returned a few minutes later.

"Lovely!" Edith said with a grin, catching Sybil's reflection. "And who would have thought that twenty-minutes ago you were still in bed."

Sybil poked her tongue out at her sister, before rising from the dressing table. She noticed that her sister was looking rather…_mischievous_; as if she were up to something. She also noticed that Edith was dressed very nicely…perhaps a little _too_ nicely for a long day of walking. "Edith…are you sure that's—"

Edith looked down at herself, as if Sybil were pointing out a stain on her dress. "What? This is perfectly fine for the day I have planned."

Sybil frowned. "Well, yes, it is lovely, but don't you think—?"

"I think," she interrupted once more. "That we should go downstairs and get some breakfast before Aunt Rosamond has the servants take it away."

* * *

><p>Aunt Rosamond wasn't in the breakfast room when they arrived, but Mary was. The eldest sister smiled at Sybil when they entered, and for the first time perhaps since returning from the Swan Inn, Sybil smiled back.<p>

She had been giving some careful thought to her and Mary's relationship, and while it frustrated her that Mary didn't seem to understand how Sybil could possibly love Tom or want a life with him that was the exact opposite of Downton, at the same time she did love her sister…and she didn't want the remaining weeks they had together to be spent in festering resentment.

"I see Edith was successful in getting you to join us," Mary murmured as she spread some marmalade on her toast. "Did you sleep well?"

Sybil groaned, which seemed to be enough to answer her sister.

Mary couldn't help but chuckle. "Yes, the beds are rather…"

"Frothy," Sybil answered, which earned a giggle from both her sisters. She smiled at the sound, and smiled at the both of them. It wasn't often that they had this sort of peace.

"Where's Aunt Rosamond?" Edith asked, as she helped herself to the buffet.

Mary turned her eyes towards a door to the left, one that led to the study. "She received a telephone call, just before you came down," she explained. "Apparently it was 'most dire' and had to be taken right away."

"Sounds serious," Edith remarked.

Mary rolled her eyes. "Hardly; I've heard her laugh twice—" as if on cue, another roll of their aunt's laughter could be heard from behind the door. "I don't think it's anything to worry about," Mary concluded.

Sybil smiled as she sat down with her plate and poured herself some tea. "At first I wasn't sure if she would be upstairs having breakfast in bed."

Mary frowned. "Not when she's hosting us."

Sybil lifted an eyebrow. "Well she…" she paused to lower her voice so only her sisters could hear. "She didn't seem to have a problem with leaving us to 'fend for ourselves' yesterday when we arrived."

Mary wrinkled her nose. Clearly she agreed.

"I don't think widows have breakfast in bed; it's only something married women do," Edith remarked.

"Edith!" Mary hissed, glancing towards the study door.

"I'm not trying to sound unfeeling," Edith defended. "But I do think that's how it's done in society."

"It's all silly if you ask me," Sybil added her voice to the conversation. "The entire notion that a woman has her morning meal while still in bed, simply because she's married—"

"It's not silly!" Mary defended, looking quite shocked that anyone would speak against the very idea. "I can't imagine anything more luxurious! And it's an honor—"

"_How_ is it an honor?" Sybil challenged. She knew that she shouldn't, but she couldn't help but laugh at the words Mary was using. "I won't deny that there is something luxurious about the idea; perhaps something done for special occasions like one's birthday or when a person is feeling ill, but _every day_?" she shook her head. "And who is to judge if a woman, married or not, chooses to have any meal in bed, or rise to join her husband and family at the table? Why must women be confined to these little traditions? It's not something I intend—"

"And you won't," Mary interrupted, her eyes like steel as she stared back at Sybil. "Not with the choice of husband you'll have."

Sybil met her sister's gaze with one just as harsh, and all those thoughts of warmth and sisterly love quickly vanished.

Thankfully, any awkwardness that had fallen upon the room disappeared the second the study door opened and their aunt came waltzing back into the room, a lovely smile on her face. "Ah, Sybil, Edith, so good to see you this morning!" she greeted her other two nieces, before resuming her place at the table, across from Sybil and between Edith and Mary. "So, what juicy gossip did I miss?"

Edith was the first to speak. "Who was that on the telephone?"

Aunt Rosamond, thank heaven, was instantly distracted. "Oh, just a good friend of mine, Lady Cavendish; she attended the Russell's card party the other night, and told me all about how Bertie Russell got into a fist fight with Victor Nesbitt, who apparently accused him of cheating! A police constable had to be sent for!" Despite the subject matter, Aunt Rosamond clearly thought the story was most entertaining, because she threw her head back and laughed. "Oh my, I must be sure to call upon dear Celia, Bertie's sister, and see what else she can tell me." She turned then back to her nieces. "Now, Sybil, Edith tells me you are going for a walk this morning to Regents Park?"

Sybil smiled and nodded her head. "Yes, I actually would very much like to see the zoo again."

Aunt Rosamond rolled her eyes, but gave her youngest niece what could only be described as a sweet and somewhat patronizing smile. "Oh you dear thing; I remember how you yearned to walk through the zoo when you were here for your season. You just won't be satisfied until you go, will you?"

Sybil wasn't quite sure how to respond to her aunt's teasing, so she simply put on a smile before lifting her tea cup to hide her grimace.

"And luncheon? What shall you be doing then?" Aunt Rosamond asked. "Will we be expecting to see you both with us and Sir Richard?"

"Actually, we have plans!" Edith said rather cheerfully.

Sybil was surprised, and Mary looked confused. "Plans?" Aunt Rosamond asked, also looking rather curious.

Edith nodded. "Yes, before we left, I wrote to some friends of ours, just to see if they would be in London while we were here, and I received a reply from Martha and Georgina Pembrooke!"

Sybil's eyes went wide at the mention of the vile Pembrooke twins. It had been years since she had seen them last; her coming out ball, actually. She couldn't stand the haughty creatures, and the idea of seeing them and having luncheon with them truly caused Sybil's stomach to twist.

"Oh the Pembrooke girls, yes, I remember them," their aunt commented. "Still unmarried?"

Edith blushed at this, because the Pembrooke girls where her age as well. "I believe Georgina was engaged, but he died in the War. I don't know about Martha—"

"Ah, a pity indeed," their aunt sighed, waving her hand in a rather dismissing manner. Clearly she was done with this conversation. "So you will be having luncheon with them, and then some shopping?"

Edith nodded. "Yes, and then we'll be back in time for tea."

"Good, good; perhaps Lord H will be here?"

_Lord H?_ Sybil glanced at Mary, who was clearly trying to suppress her eye roll. Yes, it seemed that their aunt was _very_ serious about Lord Hepworth.

Edith sipped her tea and glanced at nearby clock. "Oh! Sybil, we should be going if we hope to have a pleasant stroll before meeting Martha and Georgina for luncheon."

Sybil sighed and put on a smile for Edith, although it was quite obvious to anyone looking closely that it was strained. Spending any amount of time with the Pembrooke twins was the opposite of "holiday". Still, she supposed it was only fair, seeing as Edith was letting her have her way in visiting the zoo. And surely luncheon wouldn't last for more than hour? Or two, perhaps? Two at the most, surely. Oh Lord, it was going to be a beastly afternoon, she could tell…

"Good luck," Mary murmured, catching her youngest sister's eye as she rose to follow Edith. That steel glare they had exchanged before Aunt Rosamond had returned had long since disappeared. Mary knew how Sybil felt about the Pembrooke twins, and the look she shared with her was one of sympathy. Perhaps it was because the look held understanding? Or perhaps it was because Mary reached out and took Sybil's hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze? But for whatever reason, once again, Sybil felt her heart warm to her sister, and she prayed that despite what Mary may think of the choices Sybil was planning on making, that she would gain her support, just as she had gained Edith's. It devastated her to think she wouldn't have her parents or grandmother's support. But for some reason, she found it even more heartbreaking to think she may never have _both_ her sisters on her side.

"I hope you have a lovely afternoon as well," Sybil replied, returning the squeeze and giving her sister a genuine smile. She meant that; even though she believed Mary was making a grave mistake in carrying through with her plans to marry Sir Richard, she prayed that despite those decisions, her sister would find happiness.

"We'll see you at four!" Aunt Rosamond called out to them, while a maid helped them with their coats and the butler opened the door. Edith and Sybil smiled and murmured their goodbyes, before turning to venture out into the cool, bustling morning that was London.

* * *

><p>It was warm for the last day of January. The weather overall had been incredibly mild, and even though it was still cool enough to want to wear a nice, warm coat and gloves, it was not unpleasant enough to keep someone from wanting to venture outdoors. And certainly not with the way the sun was shining, its golden rays glimmering in the ripples of the nearby pond.<p>

"It's a shame it's too cold for the fountains," Edith remarked as they passed one of the park's many beautiful stone fountains.

"It's a shame it's too cold for the flowers," Sybil sighed, forcing to move her eyes away from the pond. There was some green in the trees, but for the most part, the park and its gardens were brown and gray. The promise of new life was just around the corner, but certainly not for another month at the very least. She imagined how in only a few months, not only would the place be colorful and bright with new buds, but it also would be swarmed with many visitors, all of whom would come for reasons other than to gaze upon the park's natural beauty.

She remembered Granny telling her how it was not only fashionable, but also very much expected, for people "of their ilk" to be seen walking about London's fashionable parks. It was a chance to reacquaint oneself with old friends, introduce the season's new hopefuls to potential suitors, and of course, to catch up on the latest gossip.

_A wretched waste a perfectly lovely place_, Sybil thought. No, she was never meant for this world, or perhaps this world was never meant for her? She loved to dress up for the occasional ball or party, but for the most part, she was quite content to live simply, or simpler; to spend a winter's evening before a fire, with a newspaper or book in one's hands. To travel to a place like London because wanted to see the city, not because it was dictated to be the "proper, fashionable time to do so". To stroll through a park like this, because one wanted to bask in the glories of nature; she giggled then as she recalled a line from Pride and Prejudice. She remembered liking and agreeing with it very much when she was younger and had no interest whatsoever in beaus or courting: _"the glories of nature; what are men compared to rocks and mountains?"_ Indeed, she certainly agreed with this when she thought about Larry Grey and his all too often wandering hands.

"I noticed how you weren't exactly…excited…when I made mention about going and seeing the Pembrooke sisters for luncheon," Edith commented after a while.

Sybil sighed but forced a smile. "You're being very good to me in letting me have my way when it comes to the zoo—"

"_And_ the British Museum; don't think I forgot about that," Edith chuckled.

Sybil smiled back and nodded her head. "I know they're not your cup of tea, but I am grateful that you are willing to 'escort' me to them," she grinned, linking her arm through her sisters. "So putting up with a few shopping excursions to Bond Street, as well as luncheon with Martha and Georgina Pembrooke is a fair price to pay, I suppose."

Edith couldn't help but laugh. "Oh Sybil, you are wicked!"

Sybil joined her sister in their laughter and paused, gazing at the pond before them, watching as a few ducks skidded across a thin sheet of ice that barely covered its surface. Sybil's eyes fell on a pair of swans that had emerged from beneath the branches of a willow tree. She felt her face darken as she recalled stealing a few precious moments under her own willow tree back at Downton.

"What if…" Edith broke the peaceful silence. "What if I told you that other arrangements could be made?"

Sybil turned her head to her sister and looked a little confused. "Other arrangments?"

Edith nodded. "Suppose I go to visit the Pembrooke's, and leave you to your own devices?"

In truth? She would love it. The idea of exploring London all on her own both terrified and thrilled her, not to mention it broke every rule a young lady was taught! But what was the point in asking such a question? Edith wasn't going to "abandon" her in Regents Park, and by that same token, as much as she disliked the Pembrooke sisters, she wasn't going to be blatantly rude by leaving Edith to go and visit them all on her own.

"While I cannot deny the idea has some appeal," Sybil sighed, feeling she could joke like this with her sister. "It wouldn't be right to slight their invitation without a reasonable excuse."

"Suppose you do have a reasonable excuse?"

Sybil laughed. "I don't think wishing to continue strolling through Regents Park and walk around London on my own would be considered 'reasonable'."

Edith turned her head, glancing back at the stone fountain they had passed. "Suppose when I replied to the invitation, I didn't include you?"

Sybil's brow furrowed. "What? What do you mean?"

"Suppose when I wrote to Martha and Georgina about coming to London, I didn't make mention of you? Therefore when the invitation to join them for luncheon came, I accepted, but said nothing about my younger sister joining me?"

Sybil's frown deepened. "Why would you say something like that?" And why did Edith keep glancing over her shoulder at the fountain? It wasn't going to magically turn on.

"Well…perhaps because I thought you would be otherwise occupied?"

"Otherwise occupied—Edith, that makes no sense, I—good heavens, why do you keep doing that?"

Edith turned back to look at her. "Doing what?"

"THAT!" Sybil pointed towards the fountain. "You keep turning your head, glancing at it, as if you're expecting something to happen! Why? Are you looking for someone—"

The words died in her throat.

Because she had turned her head towards the very fountain her sister kept glancing at…and saw a man emerge from the other side, walking around it, his face turning every which way, as if he were looking for something…or someone. His face was looking everywhere but at her. But that didn't matter, because she knew him; she knew his profile, his body shape, the breadth of his shoulders, even under the dark coat that he wore, or the wisps of hair that escaped from under his cap, that had the ability to look brown in the glow of a garage lamp, but blonde in the glow of the sun.

"Tom?"

Her voice was soft, and full of disbelief. But a choked gasp burst from her throat as his ears heard her voice, heard her say his name, and he turned then finally to see her face…and once again, she saw those wonderful blue-green eyes. The eyes of her dearest friend, her equal, and the man she loved and had loved for so long.

"Sybil…?" he breathed, staring back at her with the same surprise and wonder that she mirrored.

It was him…it really, really was him!

It was so rare for her to see him in anything other than his livery, but she knew it was him upon first glance. And he looked so handsome, standing there in his dark coat (with two green patches on the elbows), and he quickly removed his dark cap, causing some of his hair to fall across his brow. Sybil had to sustain a giggle at the sight, because she had never seen him with fringe; his hair was always slicked back, but…the way his hair fell across his brow, and the way he quickly lifted his fingers to brush it aside, made him look younger, almost like a little boy in some ways, especially the sweet way he was gazing back at her in total amazement.

She forgot everything then. She forgot that her sister was standing right next to her. She forgot that they were in the middle of Regents Park. She even forgot that there were other people out and about that could possibly see them. She stepped forward, and without any hesitation, opened her arms to enfold him in a fierce hug that must have surprised him, because he actually stumbled back a bit.

But he caught himself, and as she burrowed her face against the fabric of his shoulder, she sighed happily as she felt his own arms open and enfold her, returning the embrace and bringing such wonderful, delicious, loving warmth to her body.

"Oh Tom…" she gasped, her arms only tightening around his middle, her gloved hands pressing against his back, pulling him closer to her frame, as if she feared he was some mirage that would disappear. _Like the morning after we returned from our escape and I saw him beneath the willow tree_. Truly, the joy she felt now was just like that moment.

"Ahem…"

She heard Edith's voice behind her, but she didn't care. She lifted her head and looked directly into Tom's eyes, her own shimmering with unshed tears full of happy surprise that he was here, in London, standing before her, and in her arms!

"Why are you here? When did you arrive? How did you get here? How did you know I would be in Regents Park? How long are you staying? Oh gracious, is Papa with you? Is that why you've come? Is he around here? Or is it Mama? Granny? Are you alone? Please tell me you're alone? Please, I—"

"Sybil…" Edith groaned, interrupting the endless array of questions she was throwing at him.

She hadn't realized that her hands were gripping the lapels of his coat, holding fast and tight, as if expecting something or someone to come out of nowhere and take him away from her. Tom was glancing over her shoulder at her sister, and Sybil felt her cheeks darken, suddenly remembering that it was just the two of them out here and that Edith was only a few feet away. But Tom chuckled, seeing the sheepish smile that spread across her face as the realization dawned on her, and he kindly leaned forward, and despite their audience, brushed his lips against her brow, a comforting gesture that caused Sybil's toes to curl in her boots.

"I think your sister will be able to explain everything," he murmured, his hands rising to her shoulders and very gently turning her around and away from him so that they could both face Edith, but Sybil refused to lose all contact with him, just in case something did mysteriously swoop down to steal him from her. _Lord, please don't let this be a dream_, she thought to herself. Her hand gripped his, her fingers entwining and refusing to let go. If this was a dream and he was going to be ripped from her when she awoke, that damn it, she would go with him.

"And I can," Edith said with a smile. She certainly looked amused, as well as rather proud. And that was when it suddenly dawned on Sybil.

"You PLANNED this?" she gasped.

Edith couldn't help but laugh. "I'm amazed that you didn't figure it out, actually! I must be much better at planning surprises than I thought," she grinned rather smugly.

Sybil's mind rushed back to that day when Edith came to her room_. __"I think this is exactly __what you need__ right now. A chance to __get away__ from Downton. And because it will be before the Season, you won't have to worry about __running into anyone__ who knows Mama and Papa, or at least knows them that well. Do you understand?"_

Yes. Yes she understood perfectly now.

Sybil's wide eyes turned to Tom then. "And…and you knew as well?"

"Not entirely, no," Tom confessed, the hand that wasn't holding hers reached inside his coat and retrieved a piece of paper. He handed it to Sybil, who snatched it up and quickly began to read its contents.

"Edith!" she gasped, recognizing her sister's handwriting. Edith simply stood there, smiling and trying to look innocent, while at the same time giggling with mischievous glee that she had succeeded in a grand scheme, much like that of her little sister.

Sybil kept glancing back and forth from the letter in her hand, to her sister, to Tom.

She couldn't believe it.

"All of this…" Sybil murmured, still glancing back and forth. "Everything, this…this entire holiday…you…you arranged _all of this_ so…so Tom…" she looked up at him and thought her heart would melt at the loving way he looked at her. "So Tom and I…?" she turned back to her sister, surprise still evident in her voice, but also great amount of emotion.

Edith had told her that she had her support. But after realizing all that her sister had done in giving the two of them this opportunity to come together, at last, in London of all places…

Tears were rolling down her cheeks, and with an emotional hiccup, Sybil released Tom's hand so she could throw her arms around her sister and embrace her in the fiercest hug Edith had ever received.

"Gracious!" Edith laughed, nearly stumbling backwards the same way Tom had when Sybil barreled into him. But her sister, despite the somewhat embarrassed giggling she let out due to Sybil's burst of emotion, returned the hug. "Consider it my 'engagement present'," she murmured, hugging Sybil and offering a somewhat bashful smile to her future brother-in-law.

"Oh Edith," Sybil managed to gasp between happy sobs. "Thank you, thank you, thank you—"

"Oh hush," Edith dismissed, although from what Tom could see, the middle Crawley sister was now trying to fight her own emotion from taking her the way it had taken Sybil.

Tom smiled at the two sisters, and bowed his head to Lady Edith. "Thank you, milady—"

"Oh stop," Edith dismissed once again, before putting her hands on Sybil's shoulders and pushing against her slightly, encouraging Sybil to release her. Edith sighed and removed her handkerchief from her purse, handing it to Sybil so she could wipe her face. "And don't thank me just yet; not when the day has barely begun for you both."

Sybil paused in drying her eyes and gazed at her sister as the meaning behind her words washed over her. "You mean…you mean Tom and I—?"

"Well of course, silly!" Edith laughed. "Didn't you hear a word I said earlier? About 'supposing I left you to your own devices'?"

Sybil gasped and glanced over her shoulder at her fiancée, a large, joyful smile spreading across her face. "You…you mean it? You really mean it?"

"Sybil, stop asking such silly questions," Edith admonished, although she couldn't help but giggle at her sister's exuberance. "I wasn't lying when I told you that the Pembrooke's invitation was only addressed to me. And Branson was so good to accept _my invitation_ in escorting you around the city, and taking you to all those places you go on and on about that in all honesty, sound rather dull to my ears."

Sybil rolled her eyes, but playfully so, before giggling and glancing back at Tom. He smiled at her, and Sybil wasted no time, returning to his side and now wrapping her hand around his arm.

"I hope you're up to the task, Branson," Edith sighed. "Over the last few days it's been nothing but the London Zoo and the British Museum."

Tom smiled and reached over to run his free hand over the one tucked against his arm. "It would be my pleasure, milady…"

Edith rolled her eyes while Sybil smiled up at him, nothing but light and love reflected in her eyes as he gazed back.

Her dream; the dream she had had ever since Tom had told her about his time in London, before coming to Downton; about going and seeing the British Museum together, exploring the different boroughs, talking to the people, sharing a delicious, mouth-watering plate of chips together…

Her dream was finally coming true. She would get to do all those things with her dearest, most treasured friend, who also just so happened to be the man she loved with her whole heart.

She was so lucky. She was truly blessed.

"Now Branson!" Edith interrupted her thoughts with a stern voice. "You must make sure Sybil is back before four o'clock!"

Tom turned his attentions back to her sister and nodded his head. "I understand, milady."

Edith made a face. "Oh gracious, we can't have that anymore, can we? At least not when it's just the three of us," she smiled, blushing a little herself. She stepped forward then, holding her hand out for Tom to shake. "I'm pleased to meet you Mr. Branson; my name is Edith Crawley, your future sister."

Sybil's hand went to her mouth to keep another happy sob from bursting out as she watched Tom's face light up and smile, before taking Edith's offered hand and giving it a shake. "And I'm pleased to meet you…Edith," he tried for the first time, causing all three of them to blush and laugh at the strange way it sounded, addressing Edith not by her title, but simply by her name. As a brother would address his sister. "Tom Branson, your future brother."

Edith beamed at this. "Tom…" she murmured for the first time in his presence, the first time since she and Sybil had spoken all those days ago, when Edith had suggested this journey. "My, I cannot deny that does sound a little…strange, doesn't it?"

Tom laughed. "I cannot deny that it indeed it does, mila—Edith," he corrected. "I'm sure it will take some getting used to."

"Indeed," Edith laughed. "But I must also confess, I rather like the idea, of having a brother."

Tom's smile grew even more, and despite her best efforts, the tears trickled down Sybil's face once again as she watched this exchange between her sister and her fiancée.

_"You see? The two of you aren't as alone as you might think…"_

Perhaps they weren't? Oh, if only she could convince Mary to accept the both of them as well. It was wonderful having Edith's support, but if she could have both of her sisters…

"Now Sybil, Sybil—are you listening?" Once again Edith broke into her thoughts. "You do understand that you must be back at Aunt Rosamond's by four, yes?"

"I'll be sure to have her back by half-past three at the latest," Tom promised, with a somewhat dutiful bow of the head, a gesture he was clearly used to giving after so many years in service.

Edith glanced at her and groaned, shaking her head slightly and rolling her eyes, but Sybil knew it was all done in a playful way to get a reaction. "Thank you, Br—Tom," Edith sighed. "I know I can count and depend _on you_."

As she had done earlier, Sybil poked her tongue out at her sister, which earned another eye roll, but also giggle. "Well, I best be on my way…as shall the both of you," Edith said with a parting smile. "Enjoy yourselves, but be careful," she said, giving Sybil a small look of warning, which Sybil did understand. _Don't do anything foolish; don't do anything that will make me regret taking this chance for the both of you_, was what that look meant. "I'll see you at tea, Sybil."

Sybil smiled, but reached out once again, grasping Edith's hand before she could walk away. "Thank you," she whispered, meaning so much in those words. Those simple words would never be able to fully encompass the thanks she was feeling right now for her sister to get her to come to London, to convince Tom to also take some holiday time while they were on holiday; to give him the money for the train ticket, and to give him a time and a place to meet, all the while not revealing the full reason behind this "mysterious" scheme so he could be just as pleasantly surprised as she was upon seeing him there, by the fountain, in Regents Park—IN LONDON!

Edith smiled and returned the squeeze, before gently pulling her hand away. "You're welcome," she murmured, and with one more parting smile, turned and walked away, leaving the youngest Crawley sister and the Downton chauffeur alone, together, near a pond in Regents Park.

Tom turned to look at her, and the smile on his face was so bright and loving, that Sybil wasn't sure it was possible to melt any further than she already had…and yet she managed to find a way. "So…what shall we do today?" he asked in a jovial voice.

"Kiss me," was Sybil's answer, turning and wrapping her arms around his neck, her fingers threading in his hair, eagerly pulling his head down towards hers.

Tom couldn't help but chuckle, even though his own hands were weaving around her waist, pulling her closer. "_Here,_ milady?" he feigned his shock. "In Regents Park, where any passer-by could see?"

"Shut up," Sybil moaned, a happy sigh escaping her lips just before his own finally covered hers.

It was the perfect start to their holiday.

* * *

><p><em>TA DA! Ok, was there anyone who really didn't see that coming? ;o) AND LOOK! Sybil's wish to always spend time with Tom in London HAS COME TRUE! Now the question is...what shall they do with their time? Oh, and in case there's any concern about whether or not they'll have enough time together, don't worry! Tom will be around the next day as well ;o)<em>


	144. London Holiday (part one)

_HERE IT IS! The first part of Sybil and Tom's London Holiday! :oD One of my favorite fanfics is **History Lady 24's** **"Forbidden Pleasures"** (which you should TOTALLY read if you haven't) and I can't deny, the trip Sybil and Tom take to Liverpool in that story did inspire me with these next few chapters. For those of you who love the POV chapters, you'll like these, as the next chapter, and *possibly* the one after it, will be POV's (there was no way I was going to be able to contain *all* of the London holiday in one chapter!) So here it is, PART I of the holiday. And for the most part, this is a very lovey-fluffy chapter (awww!) with just a pinch of angst ;o) OH! I'm dedicating this chapter to **Dustedoffanoldie** who *begged* me upon penalty of getting skewered with a pitchfork, to update and give her some loving Sybil/Tom sweet times in London :oP HOPE YOU ENJOY!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Forty-Four<strong>

Sybil moaned appreciatively as she bit into another salty, delicious chip, licking her fingers clean and grinning as she imagined the horrified expressions on her family's faces if they could see her now, being positively "uncouth" with her eating habits.

"It's not every day when a man will admit that he's actually jealous of a chip."

She giggled and glanced at that very man sitting next to her, who was grinning back but whose eyes seemed rather transfixed with her lips as her tongue ran along them to get the last of the salt from the chip she had just finished chewing.

"I think…" he began to lean in and Sybil sat perfectly still, her heartbeat growing in anticipation. "I think you missed a little…"

She bit her lip to contain her giggle, her cheeks growing hot as her eyes held his. "Oh dear, that is a predicament; and I don't have a napkin!"

He grinned and her eyes drifted close as she felt his lips touch the corner of her mouth, his tongue darting out as if to "lick" the so-called "chip residue", which naturally caused her own mouth to open with a gasp, and then happily welcome his kiss, his hand now cupping her cheek, bringing her face closer and closer to his while the kiss deepened further.

Another appreciative moan escaped her throat. And it had nothing to do with chips.

"Ahem!"

Both of them sighed and reluctantly parted, Sybil blushing immensely while Tom turned and fought very hard not to glare in annoyance at the police officer that was walking past. He had come upon them earlier, when they were locked in a rather passionate embrace shortly after Edith had left them to their own devices. While there was no law against kissing in public, Sybil knew very well that such outwardly affectionate displays were frowned upon—especially in places like this where children roamed about.

They had spent their morning walking hand in hand through the zoo, Sybil pausing and pointing out some of the different animals, recalling stories from her childhood about seeing the different creatures, wanting to learn more but never wanting to leave. Her nanny had gotten very frustrated with her because she kept running ahead from the rest of them, wanting to see everything, trying to get as close as she could, her hands itching to reach out and stroke the fur of fur of the tigers or run over the scaly skin of the lizards.

_ "Both Mary and Edith were utterly terrified of the snakes, but I thought they were fascinating!" she told him. "And poor Nanny; I must have driven her mad with how I tried to reach through the bars to pet a tiger."_

_ Tom chuckled. "Always fearless, just as I imagined."_

_ She blushed and looked down at her feet. "I wouldn't say I was always fearless—more curious, really."_

_ "Curiousness is a form of fearlessness; too many people are willing to sit and live in ignorance rather than go exploring, ask questions, and learn for themselves."_

_ She smiled and him and wrapped her hand around his arm, loving the way it felt to be pressed against his side, to be out walking in public just like this; just like any other couple._

_ "Perhaps, but it's important to be cautious too," she added. "After all, Nanny was right to pull my hand away from the tiger's cage."_

_ "True," he agreed. "But cautiousness comes with learning. And some people are too afraid to even take that step."_

_ Tom truly did have an amazing talent with words. She remembered so well, the day she had asked if he ever thought about going into politics, and how she told him she thought it was a fine ambition. She still believed that, but now she understood that Tom saw himself as a wordsmith, and his weapon of choice would be the pen and the typewriter, not the platform or podium. He would write the books and articles that would live on and inspire others, long after the speakers who read his work had died. Her chest swelled with pride for this incredible man, who not only had inspired her, but who had also helped her in growing her knowledge. Indeed, Tom Branson had done more for her education than any governess she had ever had. _

_ The roar of a nearby lion brought Sybil's attention back to the animals in front of them. "I hated leaving the zoo, but I always wanted to rush back to the house so I could go into the library and look up everything I could find about the animals I saw," she giggled as she recalled the memory. "For example, did you know that it's the female lion that does all the hunting, while the male lion lazes about in the savannah?" she looked up at him with a bit of a smirk, proudly showing off her knowledge. "And yet whatever they kill, the male gets to eat first!"_

_ Tom couldn't help but chuckle, his hand squeezing hers lovingly. "So are you saying it's these lions that the world has to thank in putting you on the path for women's rights?"_

_ She couldn't help but laugh at the thought, but found herself nodding her head. "Perhaps it was!" she giggled. "I do remember feeling rather outraged when I read about it." Her eyes drifted towards a few other animals, including her beloved tigers from childhood. She sighed, her heart aching as she watched the great cat pace back and forth. "It's a little different now," she murmured, more to herself than to him, but he did manage to hear her, as well as hear the pity in her voice._

_ "What's different, love?"_

_ A lovely shiver went down her spine at hearing him use that endearment. It made her hand tighten around his arm, and her gloved fingers softly run over the fabric of his coat, a small blush coming to her cheeks as she felt the muscle of his bicep flex slightly beneath her touch._

_ "I um…" she swallowed, shaking her head a little to refocus on what she had been about to say. "I meant its different now; coming here and seeing this place…" her eyes trailed back to the tiger. "It doesn't seem right that something so strong and beautiful be kept in a cage."_

_ She felt Tom's hand squeeze hers then, and she looked once again into his eyes, and felt her breath catch in her throat as he gazed back at her. There was a look there, a look of understanding that no one, not her parents, her sisters, or even Gwen, shared with her other than Tom. In fact, she sometimes thought Tom understood her better than she understood herself. _

_ He didn't say anything, he simply lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles, causing the butterflies in her stomach to flutter and tremble once again. They continued on their walk through the zoo, Tom asking her different questions about the animals, as if he were testing the knowledge to which she had boasted earlier, but it made her grin, and she loved that she could "impress" him still. _

_ They passed a food cart at one point, and Sybil gasped as the heavenly aroma of chips filled her nostrils. Tom asked if she were hungry, and she couldn't deny that indeed, she was. He smiled and she watched as he stepped forward and purchased them both a piping hot order of freshly salted chips, wrapped snugly in newspaper. Tom paid the vendor and thanked him, and then the two of them quickly found a bench seated directly across from a large pit-like area where a giant tortoise dragged itself and its massive shell across the dirt and grass before it. Sybil continued to share her knowledge about animals, including the tortoise ("they can live to be over a hundred years old!"), while sharing the delicious chips. Although soon, the chips themselves became far more enticing, and her explanations began to falter while she enjoyed partaking in the simple, delicious food for the second time in her life. _

_ Because they were sharing the chips, it made perfect sense for the two of them to sit close to each other. And Sybil enjoyed the feel of Tom's arm moving around her, resting on the back of the bench's seat, practically pillowing her head, if she chose to lean back and rest it. Even though it was lovely and sunny, there was still a bit of a chill in the air, which provided the perfect excuse (as if they needed one) to sit a little closer, until her body seemed to be snugly fitted against his side. _

And this was how they had come to be when the police officer more or less tutted at the two of them. Sitting close, eating chips, and every so often, sneaking a kiss.

"Only the English would look down their noses upon the sight of a man showing his love and affection for his fiancée," Tom muttered under his breath as the policeman passed.

Sybil swatted his stomach lightly. _"I'm_ English, you know?" She lifted her nose up in the air in an attempt to look every bit as haughty as her grandmother.

Tom chuckled. "You were born in England, but you're only half English; you have a great deal of that 'American spirit' your mother's people are known for," he leaned close until his lips were hovering near her ear and his breath was hitting it just so. "And I dare say you have the passion of a Celt."

Sybil bit her lip in an attempt to keep the moan from escaping her throat. "And…are the Celts a passionate people?" she asked, her voice a little breathy as she turned her eyes to meet his.

A wicked grin spread across her fiancée's face. "You'll know soon enough."

If her cheeks had felt hot before, it was nothing compared to the heat they felt now. "Tom Branson, you are positively…positively…" she couldn't think of a word, she was far too distracted by the way his lips curled in a teasing, and yes God help her, seductive smile. And naturally he was gazing back at her with a look of pure amusement at her flustered state, as well as pure adoration that only made her blush all the more. "Oh, you're positively infuriating!"

He threw his head back and laughed, and despite the look she was giving him, she couldn't help but giggle even more. She was still blushing furiously of course; his words had quite an effect on her, something that she couldn't deny she had been thinking about for quite some time—practically every day and night since their attempt at running away.

"I love this…"

Sybil turned and looked at him, still blushing and still giggling, but she noticed how his eyes had softened, and that the mischief she had seen in them earlier seemed to have melted into tenderness.

"Oh yes, I know you love 'outwitting' me as you would see it—"

"No, no," Tom chuckled, but he shook his head, the tenderness in his eyes only growing more, and Sybil felt his arm, the one that was resting on the bench's back just behind her, curl around her and bring her a little closer to his side. "I mean…I love _this_."

She realized then what he meant. "Being able to sit on a park bench, together in public, not having to hide…" she paused and corrected herself. "Well, not having to hide _as much_."

He smiled and nodded his head. "Aye," he murmured, his other hand moving to cover one of hers, that was rest atop her knee. "And _soon_, not at all."

It was a promise, she could hear that much. And it made her smile because she knew it was true. She turned her hand over his and laced their fingers together. "Was this what it felt like?" she asked, her eyes moving from their hands back to his.

He smiled, but looked a little confused by her words. "What?"

Sybil sighed. "When I asked you to wait; when I _kept_ asking you to wait," she groaned, feeling so foolish for all the time they had wasted because of her own silly fears. "All this frustration, this…this yearning for things to move forward, but not being able to…was _this_ what it felt like?" She bit her lip and looked up at him, wondering what he was thinking.

She sometimes wondered if he resented her; if he ever just wanted to shout, _"it could have been like this if you had said 'yes' to me in York!"_ but so far, he hadn't. She knew that she had caused him anger and frustration in the past, when he would insist that he knew she was in love with him (and he was right) but she was stubborn and too afraid to give her heart completely, even though a part of her desperately wanted to. There were so many occasions when she feared she would wake up one morning, and find him gone. First, because of the War, then after learning about his heart murmur, because he was fed up with her indecision, and just returning to Ireland to help in its fight for freedom.

But he hadn't. And she felt so humbled that despite all the reasons she provided for him to leave and never look back…he remained.

"_I'd wait forever…"_

"Hey…"

His fingers were cupping her chin and lifting her face up so he could see her eyes. She didn't realize that she was crying until she looked back at him and saw how bleary he looked through her tears.

"I…I honestly don't know how you endured it," she whispered in a mixture of awe and shame.

His fingers tenderly brushed her cheek, his thumb collecting a tear that trickled down her cheek. "Because I knew it would be worth it in the end," he answered, smiling back at her with such love that she thought her heart would burst. "And it has, and it will be."

She didn't care if anyone was looking, or if an entire squadron of police descended upon them; she reached for him, her hands taking hold of his face, and she pushed her lips up to his once again, kissing him earnestly and deeply, and a happy moan escaped her throat as she felt his own hands hold her face, his fingers, large and rough from the countless hours of work he had done over the years in tinkering with the engines of her father's cars, touching her so gently, so reverently…

A long, shaky breath escaped her lips when they finally parted. She bent her head then, to rest against his shoulder, closing her eyes and smiling as she felt his cheek move to rest atop her head. "Yes," she whispered, smiling to herself and feeling her confidence grow, thanks to him. "Yes, you're right; it has _and_ it will be."

They sat like that for a while, just enjoying the feeling of being next to the other, being able to be so close to the other. It felt so right and so natural, it always had. In so many ways it was strange; she had known Tom for years, ever since he first arrived in 1913, long before the War, back when Gwen was still a housemaid. He had quickly become her friend, and soon quickly became her best friend. He was the confident she had been looking for, the only other person she could talk to about her thoughts related to politics, and who didn't make her feel foolish for asking questions. Her father or grandmother, or even her sisters, would think she was strange for wanting to know about such things, but not Tom, never Tom. He was always more than happy to help her find the answers, and he spoke to her in a way that was never belittling; he had always treated her as an equal.

It was amazing, considering the journey they had both taken to reach this point. She was never one to put much stock into the thought of "destiny" or "fate"—she always liked the idea that individuals chose the paths they would take. And yet…maybe there was something out there that was guiding the both of them to this place.

Who would have thought that the chauffeur who had given her pamphlets about women and the vote, would declare his feelings for her in the archway of a training college in York, who would hold fast to those feelings, despite her initial fears, and who she would continue to grow closer and closer to as the long months during the War turned into years…until one day, one day _finally_…she made up her mind and took the courageous step forward, declaring to him at last, and thus to the world, that yes, yes she loved him, and yes, she wanted to marry him, to the point that she was willing that very second, to leave everything behind and elope to Gretna Green.

That declaration had been more than ten days ago. They had kissed before, but it was a little more than ten days ago that she had spoken the words _"I love you"_ for him to hear. And after so many years of yearning…of imagining, of wondering what it would be like to sit like this, to feel his arms around her, to hold his hand, to stroll with him as her beau, to kiss him freely because she wanted to…

It felt perfectly, wonderfully _right_.

Truly, there was no other man for her. He was the first to stir her heart, to awaken strange feelings and…desires, within her that she never realized she had until she had met him. He filled her waking thoughts, and soon he began to fill her dreams at night. It frightened her, the thought of losing him. It truly caused her throat to tighten and her blood to freeze. They were two people that "Society" claimed should never become friends, much less lovers. And yet…they were each other's perfect match in every way.

_And we will marry,_ she vowed again. _We will marry and we will build the life for each other that we were always meant to have. _

"So Sybil…" she lifted her head and looked up at him, seeing what looked like a mischievous light in his eyes. "Are you going to have that last chip?"

She looked down at what was left of their "chip feast" and noticed that yes, there was only one left.

She considered being cheeky; picking the chip up, acting as if she were going to give it to him, before popping it into her own mouth and making a big show about how good it tasted.

But a different thought came to her, instead. She picked up the chip, and did her best to break it into even halves. "We are equals, you and I," she declared, while placing his half into his palm.

Tom chuckled, but paused in eating it, when he noticed how Sybil was lifting her half up towards his lips. She grinned as he seemed to read her mind, and lifted his half to hers. Silently, they counted to three, and with large, goofy grins, fed each other their chip halves, Sybil laughing as she pushed hers a little roughly into Tom's mouth, Tom groaning as Sybil kissed his fingers after placing his half into hers.

"Right," Tom said, rising then from the bench, his body trembling just slightly. Clearly, the brief moment when she kissed his thumb and fingers had had an effect on him. Sybil couldn't help but grin; two could play this game. He turned to her then, and extended his hand. She happily took it and smiled as once again, she tucked her arm into his. "I believe you wanted to see the British Museum?"

Sybil nodded, loving the way his other hand would reach across and run over the fingers that were wrapped around his arm. "You're right, Tom," she murmured. He looked at her in question but she continued to grin. "I love _this_, too."

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><p>There were some "distractions" before they made it the famous museum. Before leaving Regents Park, they came across a small, but rather vocal gathering of people (mainly women), all of whom were listening intently to another woman who stood, much to Sybil's delight, in pants!<p>

"Oh! Do you think…?"

Tom couldn't help but grin and nodded his head. "Aye, I do think that is what you think it is. And yes, of course we can listen if you'd like!"

The smile on his face spread further as she leaned up and kissed his cheek, before practically tugging and pulling on his arm to follow her over to the crowd.

There was no platform for the woman in billowing tan trousers to stand on, but she didn't need it, as her voice was carrying quite far to the crowd that was gathered.

"Oh yes, Parliament thinks they're being 'just' and 'fair'," the speaker growled to those who were listening. "They say, 'what more is that you want? Haven't we given you what you wanted?' Like dogs, being given a treat for good behavior, they passed the Representation of People Act, allowing women the chance to vote—provided that they meet certain qualifications!" she added, which brought about a healthy rumble from the crowd. "And what are those qualifications? That she own property—that they're over the age of thirty—or that their HUSBANDS can speak for them in meeting property qualifications!"

A distinct growl came from just next to him, and he noticed that Sybil's eyes were glued to the speaker, and she was nodding her head, her face contorted in both concentration and frustration at the truth with which the woman spoke.

"Well, that's all very well for women OVER THIRTY, and WHO HAVE HUSBANDS, and WHO OWN PROPERTY!" she all but shouted. "BUT WHAT ABOUT THE REST OF US? ARE _WE _NOT WORTHY? DOES A WOMAN'S VALUE LIE WITH HER PROPERTY? HER HUSBAND? HER AGE?"

"NO!" Sybil declared, her fingers tightening on his arm, and Tom couldn't help but smile. He knew he should be paying attention to the speaker, but he couldn't help it looking at Sybil, his lovely and passionate suffragette.

"Meanwhile, our brothers receive the vote at twenty-one! But even _some of them_ must meet certain property qualifications! And after so many of these lads fought in a bloody war that cost Britain hundreds of thousands of lives! WHERE IS THE JUSTICE IN THAT?"

"Here, here!" Sybil declared. Tom nodded his head in agreement.

"Parliament believes they have done ENOUGH! They believe a woman WITHOUT a husband, property, and who isn't thirty, HAS NO NEED for the vote! That HER VOICE does not need to be heard!"

"NO!" both Tom and Sybil's voices joined the others.

"They scratch their heads in confusion! They don't understand why we're so upset! They believe they've given us EVERYTHING THAT WE WANT! Because of this act, _and_ the passing of the Qualification of Women Act! Like dogs, they pat us on the heads, and want us to be 'content' with our treats, BUT ARE WE CONTENT?"

"NO!"

"IS THIS JUST?"

"NO!"

"Well…I have ONLY one thing to say then to Parliament! YOU MAY TREAT US LIKE DOGS, BUT EVEN BITCHES CAN BITE!"

A roar of cheers went up from the crowd, followed by applause and a chant, crying for justice and equality. Tom glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw the policeman they had seen earlier in the zoo, as well as several others, approach the crowd, muttering that this wasn't the place, that they were all disturbing the peace of the park, and telling everyone to leave.

It wasn't like any of the rallies in Ripon that Tom had taken Sybil to in the past (thank God) but he would always be nervous whenever a crowd seemed to be getting worked up and the police arrived. Thankfully, Sybil must have sensed his tension, because she gripped his arm and leaned up into his ear, "it's alright! We can go!" and he sighed with relief, before turning them both away before arrests could be made. The crowd for the most part was breaking up and going in its own directions, but there were a few that were staying behind, continuing to chant, and Tom had no doubt that the woman who spoke would be joining the names of other suffragettes who had been arrested for speaking out for what they believed in.

"She was very good!" Sybil said, after they had put some distance between themselves and where the crowd had gathered. "And she's right, of course; it's ridiculous that Parliament has put all these restrictions on women and the vote, and yet claims that they are being fair and just!"

"Now that the War is over, and that women can now take a stand in Parliament, perhaps change will come again and you won't have to wait?"

"I hope so; 1926 is just too far away," she sighed. She then surprised him by adding, "And let us also hope that that Ireland will have her independence before then, as well."

Tom looked down at her, the smile on his face full of joy and wonder. "You mean that?"

She looked at him, her brow furrowing. "Of course I do!" A sweet blush colored her cheeks, and it only made his smile grow even more. "You're dream is my dream now."

He knew the words. Gwen had told him once how Sybil had said them to her, how they had inspired her and helped her when she was feeling low after being denied the secretarial position in Malton. He had thought Sybil sweet in saying that to Gwen; but it was even sweeter, hearing her say those words to him now, and hearing the deep sincerity with them.

"I love you," he whispered, leaning close and kissing her temple.

Her blush spread and she turned her head and dropped a sweet, simple kiss to his shoulder. "And I love you."

They took a bus to the British Museum. Sybil assured him that no one "she would know", would ride a bus if they could help it. She had never ridden on a bus before, and so it was very much a thrill for her. Tom couldn't help but laugh as he watched her cling to a vertical metal rod that was designed for people who had no choice but to stand. Even though there were plenty of seats available, and it was practically unheard of for a woman to stand, Sybil insisted, giggling as the bus would turn a corner and her body would turn with it. Tom couldn't deny he enjoyed it too, holding onto the a horizontal rod that ran along the bus' ceiling, his body close enough that if Sybil began to swing and lose her balance at turn, she would have his to cushion her and keep her from falling. He wondered if perhaps she was exaggerating her balancing issues, as she seemed to welcome any excuse to "bump" into him as they rode from the park to the museum.

"I think you enjoyed that," he commented as they left the bus.

Sybil didn't answer, she simply grinned mischievously up at him, before taking his hand and practically dragging him up the steps to the museum.

After getting to know her, and certainly after falling in love with her, Tom had often wondered what Sybil was like when she was a little girl. Now, the two of them together at the British Museum…he had that answer.

If he wasn't already in love with her, he would have fallen for her now. In fact he found himself falling for her all over again, laughing as she tugged his hand from one display to next, her favorites clearly being the ancient artifacts from Egypt. She tried her best to recall everything that she had seen when she had come to London for her season. "The mummies are fascinating!" she gasped, pointing at a nearby display, but while others gathered around the ornate jeweled sarcophagus, she was actually looking at one of the unwrapped mummified corpses, something that many of the museum's patrons (with the exception of some young children) were avoiding.

"Isn't it amazing?" she murmured in awe as she stared at the thousands year old corpse. "I mean the preservation! And the work that they went into to embalm and prepare the body!"

He watched her as she spoke, her voice getting faster and faster with excitement. Where others saw decay and horror, Sybil saw wonder and yes, beauty. Tom couldn't help but smile; another reminder that she truly was like no other person that he knew.

"I think I would have liked to have been an explorer," she stated, turning and grinning up at him.

"An explorer?"

She nodded, her smile only growing more and more. "Travel to faraway lands, see the wonders of the world…" a giggle escaped her lips as a thought crossed her mind. "Ride a camel across the desert."

Tom couldn't help but join in her laugher. "Are you saying you want to go to Egypt?"

She blushed and nibbled her bottom lip. "That's one place of many…"

He threw his head back and laughed, reaching for her then and bringing her hand to his lips. "I want to hear this list; tell me of all the places you wish to see. We'll visit each one."

Sybil gave him a look and narrowed her eyes. "Don't tease," she said with a poke to his chest.

"I'm not, I'm being perfectly serious!" he grinned. "In fact…"

Now it was his turn to surprise her.

"Tom? Where are we going?"

His smile only grew more (and more mischievous) as he led her away from the Egyptian display to the center of the museum, where the giant rotunda that he had once spoke to her about lay. Sybil stopped short just as they reached it, staring up at the giant circular room, her mouth falling open, forming the perfect O.

"Did you see this when you were here last?" he asked with a grin.

She shook her head. "No, but I remember you telling me about it," she said with a smile. "Can we go inside?"

He chuckled and kissed her hand. "No, I thought we would just stand and look at it from the outside."

She swatted his arm, and for good reason. Still, he laughed; it had been worth it.

They entered the giant round room, and that perfect O only grew rounder and rounder, as did her eyes as she took in the never-ending circular walls, lined and filled with books.

"The world's largest library, I believe," Tom whispered into her ear.

"Oh Tom…" she murmured in utter awe. "The pyramids of Egypt would be a sight to see, but…but surely I'm standing within one of the wonders of the world right now!"

His heart swelled at hearing her happiness. He wasn't the sort of man who would ever be able to shower her with wealth and riches; he couldn't give her the things that Lord Grantham gave her Ladyship. But those weren't the gifts that Sybil sought; and the riches that she longed for had nothing to do with expensive fabrics or priceless jewels.

But _this_ was something he could offer; and her smile was enough to reassure him that she was truly happy.

Now it was his turn to tug on her hand, and he took her over to a large desk, pulled a chair out for her, which she grinned and sat in, before disappearing to some of the shelves. When he returned, Sybil gasped as she took in the sight of him carrying several large and heavy books. He put them down on the desk in front of her, and watched, grinning, as she opened them to look at the colorful maps and drawings of different places from around the world.

"I know it's not the same as going and seeing those places in person," he whispered, a little embarrassed by his shortcomings. "But…it's a start; and I thought perhaps—"

"It's perfect," she interrupted, turning her head to smile up at him. And he could tell that she meant it.

She tugged his hand until he took the hint and was sitting down beside her. Together, they scoured the books, looking at pictures of far off distant places, from the ancient city of Pompeii, to the Great Wall of China, to the wilds of the Amazon River, to the very savannahs teaming with wildlife that they had seen at the zoo. And of course, the Egyptian pyramids.

_One day I'm going to take her to one of those places_, he vowed to himself. Even if it meant scraping and saving every penny and waiting until they were bent over and withered with age…he would do it. _At least to Egypt; to see the joy on her face when she realizes she can ride a camel across the desert._ Yes, that would be worth it, completely.

"Tom?"

Her voice brought him out of his thoughts. "Sorry, love," he apologized, looking a little sheepish. How long had she been speaking to him?

Thankfully, she didn't look annoyed by his distraction. Rather, she wore a tender smile on her face. And he noticed that she had one of the books lying open in front of him, one that didn't depict images of deserts or camels or the Sphinx. Rather…the pictures were lush and green; very green. A green that was so very familiar, and so very dear.

"Here," she murmured, pointing at the rolling emerald hills. "This is the place I want to go see and explore the most."

Tom felt his throat tighten with emotion. "Ireland?"

Her hand found his, and their fingers quickly laced together. "More than any other place in the world," she whispered. "In fact…I have a feeling that once I go there, I'm never going to want to leave."

His hold on her hand tightened even more. She had never even stepped foot on soil of his homeland, and already she spoke as someone who was proud to call it hers.

"But…there's one slight problem."

His brow furrowed and he felt a sudden wave of panic fill his stomach. "What?"

She bit her lip, and shyly lifted her eyes to his. "Well, I've never been there, and wouldn't know where to begin my adventures," she smiled and squeezed his hand. "Do you know of anyone who wouldn't mind serving as my traveling companion?"

A gasp escaped her lips as his hands moved around her waist, practically pulling her out of her chair and onto his lap.

No doubt they were receiving disapproving glares from some of the other patrons in the room, but he didn't care. All that mattered was this woman, this extraordinary woman who had told him, just a little over ten days ago, that she was ready to travel, and he was her ticket.

"I'll gladly apply for the job, milady," he playfully growled against her ear.

"Tom!" she gasped, making him smile as he felt the heat of her skin rise against his own. Not to be outdone, of course, she placed her hands flat against his chest and pushed back only slightly until she could look into both his eyes, before playfully asking, "And did you bring any references?"

His lips against hers were the only reference he provided. And thankfully, the only one that she needed.

* * *

><p>"Sybil? SYBIL!"<p>

Edith practically kicked her in order to bring her back to the present. Sybil turned to her sister, who was giving her a look, and then quickly realized it wasn't Edith who was talking to her, but her aunt, whose brow was furrowed in confusion as well as displeasure for having to repeat herself…_again_…to her youngest niece.

"Good heavens, are you alright?"

Sybil blushed and quickly swallowed, before putting her tea cup down and doing her best to avoid her eldest sister's eyes. Mary had been watching her closely throughout their tea, and she knew if that if she so much as glanced at her sister, even just for a moment, Mary would know everything.

"Sorry," Sybil apologized. "I…I was just recalling something I had seen at the museum." _The library and all its wondrous books. And then my fiancée pulled me onto his lap—his lap!—and kissed me, right there in front of everyone, winning the both of us some very stern and disapproving looks, but I didn't care! I now understand what Marianne Dashwood meant when she said who cares for these things when there is such a man?_

"Well, I'm glad to hear that it was worth-while trip," her aunt sighed, shaking her head in such a manner that clearly said she would never understand her youngest niece's fascination with such a place.

Sybil released a small breath of relief, and then glanced at Edith, who was giving her a small stern look. Yes, she needed to keep her daydreaming about her day spent with Tom to a minimum, at least while she was having tea and sitting in the presence of her aunt and eldest sister. She certainly needed to keep her thoughts about Tom's kisses—including the kiss he gave her behind the oak tree in the small park across the street from her aunt's house, when he brought her back at half-past three as he had promised—at bay. Later, when she was upstairs and tucked into bed, would be when she could allow those memories to enfold her, but not now while she was having tea.

But oh Lord, it was going to be difficult.

"What I was saying, my dear, was that Lord Hepworth did manage to secure us all a box for tomorrow evening!"

"Oh that's wonderful, aunt!" Edith proclaimed, glancing at Sybil as she spoke.

Sybil understood and took her cue. "Yes! How lovely; what shall we be seeing?"

Her aunt waved her hand in the air at the question; clearly the what didn't matter as much as the where and with whom. "And Mary, will Sir Richard be joining us?"

Mary put her own teacup down and put on a smile, although from what Sybil could tell, it looked rather strained. "I'm not sure; he is quite busy—"

"Surely he can spare one evening," their aunt insisted, once again waving her hand dismissively.

Mary forced another smile. "Yes…yes, I'm sure he could."

Sybil felt the strongest desire to reach across the settee where she was sitting and take Mary's hand in her own. She couldn't help but find herself every so often comparing her love and feelings for Tom with her sister's feelings for her own fiancée. Sybil couldn't wait for the next moment to be alone with Tom—she couldn't wait to be his wife, at last! But Mary seemed so hesitant, especially as of late. And while Sybil would admit she was naïve in such matters, she couldn't help but think this wasn't how one should feel, when thinking of their fiancée. _Oh Mary, why keep up this charade?_

"Wonderful!" Aunt Rosamond declared. "So that will make seven of us—it may be a tight squeeze, but I'm sure it will work—"

"Seven?" Sybil interrupted. She did the math over in her head to make sure she hadn't miscalculated. Mary and Sir Richard, Aunt Rosamond and Lord Hepworth, Edith and herself; who could possibly be the seventh person?

"Yes, that was what I was trying to tell you before you began reminiscing about your little excursion today," her aunt sighed. There was a mischievous gleam in her eye, like she was up to something or keeping a secret. It made Sybil feel very uneasy. "You will never guess whose pleasure I had in running into!"

Sybil didn't have the chance to guess; her aunt answered for her.

"Do you remember Lady Merton?"

Sybil stared at her aunt and felt a cold shiver run down her spine. However it was Mary's teacup that clattered in the saucer she was holding.

"Lady Merton?" Mary asked, trying to sound calm and once again, putting on a smile that could rival the greatest stage actress.

"That's right, of course you remember the Grey family—Lord Merton is your godfather after all," Aunt Rosamond smiled at Mary before turning her attentions back to Sybil. "After luncheon, I happened to run into Lady Merton, coming out of Selfridges," she explained. "I told her that all three of my nieces were visiting, and she asked about you, Sybil."

Sybil swallowed, trying to smile, but it was nowhere near as good as Mary's. "Oh?" she squeaked, before quickly lifting her teacup in an attempt to hide her face.

"Yes, she remembers you very well," her aunt continued, a mischievous smile now spreading across her face. "And she just happened to inform me that her daughter is getting married this summer!"

"Oh!" Edith's voice now filled the room. "Oh, that's lovely!"

Edith wasn't as aware of Sybil's disdain for a certain person connected to the Grey family, but she must have sensed something was amiss based on the awkward smiled that both Mary and Sybil were giving their aunt, and so tried to do her part by appeasing their aunt in showing interest in this news.

Aunt Rosamond beamed. "Yes, lovely Mariah; she will be the toast of the season…for a betrothed woman," she added. She then lifted her eyes again to Sybil's, and that chill Sybil had felt earlier began to spread to the pit of her stomach, and suddenly the cake she had eaten didn't feel so welcome.

"Lady Merton also told me that her son is in town…"

Yes, Sybil felt positively nauseas now.

"Oh…Larry?" Edith asked, once again trying to sound pleasant, but noticing the rather pale look her sister wore.

"Yes, that's right, Larry," Aunt Rosamond smiled, completely oblivious to the uncomfortable aura that her nieces were displaying. "I remember him at your ball, Sybil; very handsome gentleman if I recall, and, if memory serves…very fond of you?"

_Oh Lord, please don't,_ Sybil found herself praying. She couldn't stand Larry Grey; the man was the most conceited, arrogant boar she had ever met. And a bit of a bully, as she recalled memories from childhood. Her season in London had been the last time she and spoken to him, and as far as she was concerned, it could remain that way. Still, Lord Merton was Mary's godfather, and Sybil knew deep in her heart it was only a matter of time before she encountered the odious Larry again.

She just hadn't wanted it to be during her holiday with Tom.

"Anyway, I told Lady Merton about our plans to go to the theater, and she thought it would be a treat if all of us went together."

Sybil's heart sank, and she turned to Mary then, Mary who she knew would understand better than anyone why this news troubled her, and who looked at her with nothing but the sweetest, sisterly concern.

"The Greys keep a box there as well, but both she and I thought it would be nice if Larry sat with us," she explained, smiling at her nieces, not realizing how unwelcome her news was. "That way both he and Sybil can become reacquainted again," she grinned before giving Sybil a little wink.

"I don't think that's fair," Mary's voice suddenly spoke up, surprising all of them, especially their aunt. Mary glanced across the small tea table at Edith, and her eyes implored her sister to go along with what she was about to say. "I don't think that's fair to Edith; all of us being paired off while she is not."

Edith's cheeks darkened with an embarrassing blush, and Sybil groaned, imagining the fight that would later take place between the two older Crawley sisters. Yet Edith swallowed her pride, glanced at Sybil, before looking back at Mary, who wasn't looking smug but pleading that she agree.

"Oh nonsense," Aunt Rosamond said with a wave of her hand. "It's the perfect situation, actually, because Edith in many ways, can serve as chaperone, without being obvious the way I would be."

Edith's mouth fell open and even Mary looked shocked and embarrassed on her sister's behalf. But it was Sybil who stood, feeling the need to escape the room before she said something to anger and upset their aunt. "Forgive me, I…I think I need to lay down before dinner," she mumbled, turning on her heel and not waiting for a response.

It _had_ been the perfect holiday. But now there was a gloomy shadow looming overhead at the prospect of having to endure an evening with Larry Grey by her side, no thanks to her scheming, matchmaking aunt.

If only those books, the ones she and Tom had looked at while visiting the British Museum, could be portals; literal doors that a person could step into and be transported to another place…

She would have taken Tom's hand and gone straight to Ireland without looking back.

* * *

><p><em>OH NO! Larry Grey? ACK! Will he truly put a damper on Sybil and Tom's London's fun? Remember, they still have another day together; perhaps something can be concocted? ;o)<em>

_ALSO, on a slightly different note, I will be spending the next few days working in updating one of my other major fics, "Downton Abbey & Zombies"; I'm going to dedicate my time to writing several updates for it, *then* put DA&Z on a temporary "hiatus" to allow me to finally *finish* "Love's Journey" so by the time June rolls around, I can *FINALLY* begin its sequel, "Love's Continuing Journey", which will be an AU of S3. So just be patient LJ fans! More updates will be on their way soon!_


	145. London Holiday (part two)

_Sorry for the delay! Battled a bit of writer's block as well as tried to get some updates completed for DA&Z, but May is going to be dedicated to LOTS of "Love's Journey" updates, so this is one of many! YAY! _

_We continue with more LONDON HOLIDAY TIME! YAY AGAIN! And a quick note; I don't know much about the London Underground (meaning it's history-I've written it plenty of times) but I *assumed* that aristocrats would not have taken it to get around London (they would rely on their own private means of transportation, be it cars or carriages, and avoid public transportation like the Underground and buses. But again, this is my *assumption*; it just seemed to make sense that Sybil would not have such an experience, so that's why it appears in this chapter. If I'm wrong, please forgive!_

_Another quick shout-out to **History Lady 24**; I sort of borrowed the "rose in the hair" thing from Forbidden Pleasures :oP I tried to make it a little different from her story, but she did plant the seed of inspiration, so all credit to her for that! OK! ENOUGH TALK! ON WITH THE HOLIDAY!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Forty-Five<strong>

She was sitting alone on a bench, this time in Hyde Park of all places. She had always heard stories about Speaker's Corner, and was hopeful that perhaps another impromptu suffragette rally could be found there, but instead (much to her disappointment, she couldn't deny) was a well-spoken evangelist, passing out pamphlets and warning anyone within earshot that the War had been a sign of the end times and that people needed to take this opportunity to repent now, before it was too late.

She had only been sitting there for fifteen minutes having assured Edith that she would be fine and encouraging her to continue about her day. After having luncheon with the Pembrooke twins the previous day, Edith had reconnected with some other friends, and had been invited to join them on a shopping excursion to Selfridges and other places. Edith didn't like the idea of leaving her little sister alone in Hyde Park, but Sybil rolled her eyes, assured Edith that she was in a perfectly respectable place and she was twenty-two years old for heaven's sake; she did not need someone constantly watching out for her, and that included her fiancée, who was to meet her there and was running a little late for "perfectly good reasons" as she assured her sister.

In the end, she did end up winning the debate, and though she left reluctantly, Edith did leave and Sybil couldn't deny, she was grateful. Not that she didn't enjoy her sister's company; in truth, she felt closer to Edith now than ever before. She loved both her sisters very much, but between the two, Mary had been the one Sybil always felt she could go and talk to about almost anything. Yet the War had presented both her and Edith an opportunity to bond and discover their similar feelings when it came wanting more from life than what was "pre-ordained" for them, being women and the daughters of nobility. And while Edith hadn't followed Sybil in her footsteps to becoming a nurse, it was clear that her sister had talents in helping the officers during Downton's convalescent days. And of course, she would always be grateful to Edith for her love and support during all of this, and arranging things for her and Tom to meet.

_But it's still deceitful._ Sybil groaned and closed her eyes. She had told both Tom and her sisters that night in the Swan Inn that she hated deceit, and it was true. And yet her she was, being _purposefully_ deceitful. And no amount of excuses could assuage her guilt, especially after last night when Mary had come to her room after dinner to check on her.

_Sybil was still shaking after learning the news that Larry Grey was going to be joining all of them for their night to theatre and sharing a box with all of them. And it was quite clear what Aunt Rosamond's intentions were. During dinner, she talked about little else other than the upcoming Season, and all the things she wanted to do for all of her nieces, but especially for Sybil since it would be her first season since her debut. _

_ Both Mary and Edith looked at their little sister with sympathy, Mary because she knew Sybil's dislike for Larry, and Edith because she knew the truth about Sybil's engagement to Tom. At different points during the meal, both Mary and Edith tried their best to either change the subject, or at the very least, veer the conversation away from Sybil. She was grateful to both of them, and did find herself smiling at the irony that both of her sisters seemed to be able to set aside their differences and work_ _together when it came her. Yet another reason why she needed to maintain contact with them, no matter the distance between Dublin and Downton._

_ It had been a struggle to hold her tongue, to hear her aunt speak so about her future and her "future husband", when she wanted to stand up and scream at the top of her lungs that she already had a fiancée, and that he was better than Larry Grey and all these other men Society deemed "worthy" of her notice, that Tom was truly, in her eyes, the best of men. But somehow, by some divine miracle, she kept her lips sealed and forced the occasional smile and nod of the head._

_Afterwards, while she was finishing writing about the day's details in her diary, there came a soft knock on her door. She expected it to be Edith (she hadn't had the chance to speak with her sister in private about her day out with Tom) but was surprised instead to find Mary there, and looking most concerned._

_"How are you, darling?"_

_ Was this a test? Sybil didn't quite know what to say or how to respond. Did Mary suspect something? But before she could reply, her sister answered those questions for her, stepping further into the room and shutting the door behind her. _

_ "Honestly, Sybil, I had no idea that Aunt Rosamond had met Lady Merton or that she had invited Larry to join us."_

_ Sybil blushed, and felt awful for assuming Mary was up to some sort of trickery, when clearly she was simply concerned for how she had taken the announcement about Larry. _

_ "I suppose I can't fault her," she muttered. "Aunt Rosamond isn't aware with how much I detest him."_

_ Mary offered her a sympathetic smile. "Perhaps he's changed? It has been well over five years since you've seen him last?"_

_Yet despite her sister's attempt at optimism, Sybil could tell that Mary was struggling with believing her own words. And as much as Sybil tried to be open-minded about people, and that they could change for the better, she had serious doubts when it came to someone like Larry Grey._

_ "I'll sit next to you," Mary told her, squeezing her hand. "Both Edith and I will sit on either side of you, that way it will be a great deal harder for Larry to try anything without one of us noticing." The look she gave was the sort that would freeze hell, but it made Sybil smile and actually warmed her heart at hearing her sister's love and loyalty in her voice._

_ "But Aunt Rosamond might make a fuss if you do; she clearly has designs in playing matchmaker to Larry and myself," she groaned. "And Sir Richard may not be happy—"_

_ "Do you honestly think I care more about Sir Richard's happiness and comfort over my own sister's?" Mary interrupted, looking protective and fierce as she spoke._

_ Sybil swallowed the lump in her throat, her heart aching then to tell Mary,_ "then please, please say you will accept my choice with Tom! Because he is what makes me happy! He is what brings me comfort, even if it seems foreign to you because it's so vastly different from the world in which we were brought up in; I don't care about all that, I love him and I want to spend the rest of my life with him as my husband, but I love my family too and I don't want to lose you either!"

_But she didn't. Although she did feel the tears stinging her eyes and her sister saw them, before sweetly moving to wrap her arms around her and run a comforting hand up and down her back. Sybil bit her lip to keep herself from sobbing; Mary would misunderstand the sudden burst of emotion. Instead she mumbled that she was tired, and Mary gave a nod of her head before whispering a "goodnight". Despite the beautiful day she had spent with Tom, sleep did not come easy or peaceful that night. It was fitful and difficult, and combined with the horrid mattress, she felt rough and sore and quite groggy when morning finally came. _

_ As she had the previous day, Edith came to her door to roust her, but frowned upon seeing her and asked if she were well. Sybil could only imagine how she looked, so she quickly rose and did her best to comb the tangles from her hair, scrub her face, and look as pleasant and presentable as possible, applying some make-up in hopes to cover up the dark circles under her eyes caused by lack of sleep and worry. Despite the extra care and attention she had made towards her appearance, her aunt frowned upon seeing her enter for breakfast and like Edith, asked if she were feeling well. Mary also looked sympathetic, but didn't push the question after their aunt had spoken. "Perhaps we can all go shopping together?" Mary murmured, smiling at Sybil, as well as Edith. "Just the three of us? And then take tea—"_

_ If this were any other circumstance, Sybil would have been smiling and nodding her head, relishing a chance to spend time with both Mary and Edith, cherishing these moments with them before leaving, knowing that such moments would be fewer and far between after she married Tom (although she prayed they wouldn't be as few and far between as she feared). But this was not any other circumstance, and so despite the sweet and pleasant way Mary had suggested the Crawley sisters spend their day, she felt her heart suddenly squeeze with panic, both because she didn't want anyone to find out about Tom being in London, let alone stealing her time away from him, but also because she hated having to tell Mary "no", especially after the moment they had shared the other night after what seemed like months of bickering. _

_ But she needn't have worried, because Edith was way ahead of her._

_ "Oh Mary, well…that's lovely, but Sybil and I were going to go shopping for your wedding present today."_

_ Mary clearly looked disappointed (as well as a little annoyed at the way Edith had told her that she couldn't join them) but didn't put up a fight. "Fine, but I insist that we have tea together, and in a proper London tea room!" So the arrangements were made; Mary would leave both Sybil and Edith to themselves (again) and stay as far away from Oxford and Bond Streets until it was time that they all gather for tea around four o'clock. Then they would return to Eaton Square to change and make themselves ready for dinner and a night at the theatre (Sybil still had no idea what it was they were going to see). _

_ Sybil only nibbled on a bit of toast, her stomach feeling a little uneasy for all the lies she was giving as of late. She didn't like the idea that she was, in some ways, being "forced" to pick and choose between her sisters. No, she needed to, at the very least, tell Mary that she was determined to marry Tom, and prayed that while her sister may not approve, she would not revile and reject her. This thought remained with her as she and Edith departed their aunt's house, making their way then to Hyde Park, much to Edith's pleasant surprise. She wasn't so surprised when she learned that the reason Sybil wanted to go wasn't because of the fashionable gardens (although they would be lacking in color and beauty in early February), but because Sybil hoped to "observe" the infamous Speaker's Corner._

"Excuse me, miss?"

A smile spread across her lips before she even turned her head to look up at him. He was standing on the other side of the bench, his hat in his hand, and the look on his face sheepish and apologetic. "I wonder if you could help me?"

She bit her lip and grinned up and him, and then tried to adopt a "serious" expression. "I'll do my best, sir."

He smiled and lowered his eyes. "You see, I was supposed to meet my fiancée here, but due to a late bus, I'm afraid I am running terribly late."

"Gracious!" Sybil gasped, her hand coming to cover her mouth in mock horror. "And how late are you?"

He sighed and hung his head in shame. "At least twenty minutes," he muttered, checking his pocket watch and wincing slightly. "Bloody hell, nearly twenty-five."

Sybil bit her lip to keep from laughing. Despite their play, she could tell that Tom was rather upset with himself for being so late. "Well, that is a serious offense," she sighed, her tone light with hopes that he could see she wasn't upset. "You will have to be most 'creative' in your apologies to her."

He looked into her eyes and she saw that mischievous twinkle she loved. "Well…" he made a motion to sit at the other end of her bench, but before he sat down, brought his right hand forward, which Sybil only realized now had been behind his back. "I know this isn't much," he murmured, his hand revealing a single, beautiful white rose that caused her to gasp. "But I pray it's a beginning to show you how sorry I am for keeping you waiting…"

"Oh Tom!" she whispered, admiring the beauty of the rose. "Thank you! It's lovely!"

He looked a little embarrassed then. "I wish I could have gotten you an entire bouquet…" his voice trailed off slightly, and Sybil could see a little disappointment in his eyes as he spoke. Roses in winter? She couldn't imagine how expensive an entire bouquet would be. Once upon a time such thoughts would never have passed her mind, but she was so much more aware now. How expensive was this holiday for Tom? They had never really talked about money, other than the fact that they understood that they would have to wait until Tom had a job lined up in Dublin before leaving. She wasn't completely naïve; she knew that her life would be very, very different from the life she had grown up with at Downton, and that included pinching their pennies and watching expenses.

And yet, as odd as it sounded, in some ways Sybil welcomed the change, relished it even. It would be a challenge to be sure, but a challenge that she and Tom would face together. And that was what she loved so much about the thought.

Still, she didn't want him to feel embarrassed, especially after surprising her with such a beautiful gift.

"A bouquet would be quite bothersome, carrying it from place to place," she said with a wave of her hand, before taking the rose from his hand and bringing it to her nose and breathing in its lovely scent. "Besides," she grinned, carefully breaking the stem. "I can't pin an entire bouquet to my hat now, can I?"

Tom stared at her, and she was happy to see a smile spread across his face as she took the pretty jeweled pin on her hat and used it to attach the rose bloom to it. "Perfect!" she giggled, admiring her handiwork, before putting her hat back on. "Now wherever I go there will be a touch of summer following me."

He moved closer to her then, and she welcomed the warmth of his body, eagerly scooting into his arms and leaning her face against his hand as it lovingly cupped her cheek. "You're an extraordinary woman, Sybil Crawley…have I ever told you that?"

It was her turn to blush now, and if Tom weren't holding her cheek just so, she would have looked down out of bashfulness. Still, she couldn't pass the opportunity to tease him a little. "A woman never tires of hearing such things," she giggled.

He chuckled as he leaned in, and Sybil closed her eyes anticipating the feel of his lips, finally.

All worries and concerns and anxieties from the previous evening and this morning melted away at the touch of Tom's lips to hers. She welcomed his kiss quite eagerly, deepening it by moving her palms which were pressed against his chest up to his shoulders, her gloved fingers gripping the fabric of his coat and drawing him closer, practically pulling him to her.

Tom chuckled and gave in, welcoming the feel of her tongue before greeting it with his own. Was there anything in the world better than kissing Tom Branson? Sybil highly doubted it.

…Well…maybe there was something else, but that would have to wait.

Tom gasped when she finally released him, and stared down at her, his eyes bright and shining and his lips a little swollen from the intensity with which she had kissed him. "Milady is demanding!" he teased, causing her to blush before swatting his chest. He only laughed harder, before leaning in and murmuring in a low, deep voice, "not that I mind." His grin was the epitome of the word "devilish".

"I missed you," she confessed, blushing but smiling up at him, her hands not ready to release him yet.

"I can see that," he chuckled, earning another swat, before wrapping his arms around her shoulders and enveloping her to his side. "I missed you too, very much. And I am sorry for my lateness," he apologized again. "How long have you been waiting here by yourself?"

Sybil waved her hand in a bit of a dismissive manner. "Edith wanted to stay but I insisted that she go," she explained. "I am capable of chaperoning myself, you know."

He smiled and Sybil felt her insides grow warm. "I have no doubts about your capability of looking after yourself, especially in place like this in broad daylight. But if you don't mind me saying…you did look…_troubled_, when I arrived, and I wondered if that was because of my lateness, or because you had no one to speak with—"

He certainly was observant the way a journalist should be, she thought. Of course, Tom always had a knack for reading her.

"Is everything alright, love?"

His eyes, those beautiful blue-green eyes that earlier had been full of mischief and merriment, were now filled with tender concern. Sybil bit her lip, wondering if she should tell him about the evening's dinner plans with her family…and the Grey's. Tom had the blessed fortune of never having met Larry Grey; a shiver went down her spine as she imagined what he would think if had had the opportunity. If Major Bryant had been enough to anger Tom, she couldn't imagine the capability someone like Larry Grey would have on him.

Yet she didn't want anything to ruin this day. This was their time together, their respite from the roles they had to play at Downton. Here in London, they could act like a courting couple, walking arm in arm, and explore the city as she had always wanted to, with her best friend and dearest love by her side. Today would be their last chance, until returning to Downton and going back to frustrating game of charades they seemed forever trapped in playing. No, she would not ruin this day by saying something that would make her fiancée rage with jealous frustration at a man who he really didn't need to be jealous of because Sybil couldn't abide him, either.

"I was simply thinking…how I wish we could stay here, and not have to go back."

His smile was tender, but she could see the sadness in his eyes as well. "I know what you mean," he murmured, his hand finding one of hers and giving it an affectionate squeeze. "Soon, love; soon."

She looked down at their entwined hands and covered his with her other one. "Soon," she repeated.

He smiled and leaned forward then to let his lips grave the skin of her brow. "So…what will you like to do and see today?" he asked. "A stroll through the park perhaps? Or…" he glanced over at the evangelist standing but a few yards away. "Perhaps you would like to 'take the stage' and start your own rally?"

Sybil groaned and rolled her eyes. "The point of this holiday is to keep a low profile, Tom; the last thing we want is for me to get arrested like that poor woman yesterday, and end up in all the papers from here to Edinburgh with the headline, _'Earl of Grantham's youngest incarcerated for disturbing the peace and causing a riot'."_

Tom couldn't help but burst out laughing at the scenario she had just painted. She poked her tongue out at him, but found herself laughing as well. "What? Do you doubt my capabilities at stirring the people so?"

He chuckled but shook his head. "Not at all love; after all, you stir my heart…" he leaned in again, his brow touching hers. "And I certainly know that you can be quite…passionate…if you wish."

Good Lord, the way he could make her blush. Her face felt like it was on fire!

"The question that should be asked, however, is do _you_ doubt _my_ capabilities at breaking you out?" he grinned with a bit of a wiggle to his eyebrows. "Remember? I told you once that I would scale the Tower's walls for you should you find yourself locked up for not curtseying properly; I'll do the same in this case. I'll break you out, and together we'll run away and make our home in the British Museum, amongst the mummies and books—"

"I'd rather run away to Ireland," she interrupted, squeezing his hands in hers as she gazed up at him. His words made her smile; she too remembered the sweet yet ridiculous exchange they sent back and forth during her summer in London all those years ago, but she had been like a child then, not thinking about the place where her future lay. Now she did…and that place wasn't a fantasy world, but a real place, with real people and real work to be done.

The place where they would build their future, together.

"Aye," he murmured, his gaze filled with love and wonder. "I can't think of a better place."

* * *

><p>He shouldn't have been surprised when she told him where she wanted to spend their day. It seemed that Lady Sybil Crawley was determined to recreate the London holiday that had been discussed all those years ago in his garage, just before she departed Downton for her season.<p>

_Just before I finally realized how much I had fallen in love with her…_

When she revealed her desired destination, he chuckled and took her by the hand, leading her to something he was fairly positive she had never encountered before in all her years as a child, coming to London. It was strange in some ways; this was only his second time in coming to the capital city, and yet he seemed to know and understand its layout and where one could find its secret gems and hidden treasures better than someone like herself, who had visited it many times in her past as she grew up. It was yet another reminder to how sheltered a life Sybil and her sisters had kept.

Well, if she had enjoyed yesterday's bus ride to the British Museum, he had no doubt she was going to enjoy this. And he was right.

Sybil stared at the sign that hung above the disappearing staircase that led below the city street. "Gracious…" she all but gasped as her hand tightened just a bit on his arm as they approached.

He chuckled and looked down at her; she wasn't afraid, he could see the excitement on her face. "Ready for your first journey on the London Underground?"

Sybil's eyes widened and let out what could only be described as an excited giggle. "I've ALWAYS been curious about the Underground!" she told him, squeezing his arm as they drew closer. "Imagine; an entire train line that…that travels BENEATH the city!"

He couldn't help but grin at her enthusiasm. The beautiful child-like wonder that he had seen the other day when they rode the bus and explored the zoo and the museum returned again as they descended the stairs to where the trains were located. He was happy to see her like this; he always wanted to give her moments that made her face light up and her eyes widen with joy. She gasped when she saw a train take off in the opposite direction. "It seems so much faster than the trains at Downton!" Soon the train that would take them to their destination arrived, and Sybil was practically bursting to board. However, when the doors to the train opened, there was a moment of hesitation, and she gripped his arm just a little more tightly than before. But he smiled down at her, murmured that it was alright, and that was all that was needed. She stepped in front of him and boarded the train, her eyes taking in the sight, noting how much smaller it was from the trains she was used to traveling, but there was hiding the bright smile on her face as she took a seat and continued to look around the train, also noting a key difference from the train that had carried them both from Downton to London.

"There's no separation," she murmured to him.

"Separation?"

"No first class car or third class car," she quickly explained. Her smile grew even wider as she settled further next to him, practically snuggling her body right up against his. "I love that."

Aye, he loved it too. He lifted his arm and wrapped it around her shoulders, chuckling when the train took off, surprising Sybil by its initial speed, but soon she was looking out the darkened windows, and looking around at all the different people who boarded and settled; businessmen reading newly purchased newspapers, mothers trying to keep an eye on squirming children who wanted to do nothing more than run up and down the car. It was a far cry from the elegant world she had come from…and yet she seemed perfectly at ease and at home within it.

_ She's perfect, _he found himself thinking once again_. I never gave much thought to the idea of "soul mates", but…truly; I do think the Lord made us for one another._

They soon arrived at their destination, and he tried to contain his laugh at the slight pout she made with having to leave the train. "Do you suppose there are people that spend their entire day traveling the Underground?" she asked.

"Depends on what you mean, exactly," he answered. "There are people who have to travel a great distance across the city, and the Underground is probably the easiest and quickest way to do that, yet so many lines had to close due to the War, that it probably takes a little longer now, getting from place to place, so I'm sure for some it feels like they're spending their entire day on the train." He grinned down at her. "However, I have a feeling that wasn't what you meant."

She blushed and shook her head. "No, although now I feel a little foolish for asking."

"Don't, love," he reassured, lifting her hand in his to kiss it. "And I'm sure there are people who love to travel it and see how far the line will go, explore the different train lines, enjoy the journey…"

She smiled and nodded her head, before leaning in and murmuring. "I…I rather like that."

"I know, I could tell!" he chuckled. "In fact, I can't deny that when I first rode the London Underground, I did linger on the cars, just to see how far I could travel—"

"No, I mean that's lovely, and yes, I would love to come back and perhaps do that someday, but…but what I meant was…" she was blushing even brighter now and Tom had to bend his head to catch her voice. "I mean…I rather like that you call me that."

He looked confused. "Call you what, love?"

She blushed. "_That_," she said rather pointedly, her cheeks the most delicious shade of pink.

Realization finally dawned on him. "You like me calling you 'love'?"

She blushed but nodded. "It's very…'intimate'…the thing a man would say to his sweetheart…"

"Or to his fiancée," he added, feeling his heart swell as her blush grew brighter along with her smile.

"Or a husband to his wife…?"

He had to stop walking then, and he turned to look down at her, his hand coming up to stroke her cheek, staring in awe at this beautiful woman who not so long ago he was still waiting for an answer to his question, if she would leave this life behind and spend the rest of it with him, by his side. Deep in his heart he always believed she loved him, but now, the way she spoke about it so freely, the way she would say certain things, give him certain looks, even the way she touched him…it was as though all those months, all those years of waiting and wondering had simply melted away.

This was real. Her standing there, in front of him, and talking about their future, about being his wife, about him being her husband, without fear or regret…

He couldn't help himself, his hands gently framed her face and he leaned down to kiss her, relishing that not only was he free to do so because she loved him, but also because here they both were, far away from Downton, lost in the crowd in one of the world's busiest cities, and no one could stop them.

She returned his kiss, her lips sweetly responding to his, a soft moan in the back of her throat, indicating the pleasure she felt when they touched and held one another just so. It was tempting to let his fingers run up in the brown curls of her hair, to thread them and feel the silky mixture, to deepen the kiss even further and pull her body even closer to his.

But he managed to restrain himself (barely) and instead let his hands fall to her shoulders, cradling them and gently parting from her lips, leaning his forehead against hers and smiling down at her as the rest of the world moved around them. "I love you, Sybil Crawley," he whispered, before grinning, "soon to be Mrs. Branson."

His words caused her to melt, she grinned while tilting her face just so to give his lips a light peck, before sighing and leaning away. "And I love you, Mr. Branson," she murmured, before taking his offered arm like before. "Now…be a good fiancée and point your 'love' in the right direction," she giggled. "After all, a bride likes to do a little shopping in preparing for her wedding day!"

* * *

><p>It had been like "pulling teeth" in getting her family to take her to the famous London market, all those years ago when she had come for her season. At least that was how she thought the phrase went. Ever since Tom had told her about Portobello Road, she knew that she had to see it, and truly, in her opinion, it was ten times better than any shop on Oxford or Bond Street. Even now, in the chill of early February, there were various sellers of all sorts of wares, their stalls and carts out in the open, greeting passersby with a friendly wave and a hopeful smile that they would come to peruse their offerings, ready to "haggle" a price in order to make a profit.<p>

She loved it. In the shops she frequented back home, the only exchanges that passed between the shopkeeper and the shopper was when someone needed an item from the back, or measurements needed to be taken. But here, in a place like this, shoppers were actually ENCOURAGED to talk and make conversation with the people! And Sybil adored that, even if she was a little shy in the beginning, she loved meeting the people and speaking with them, exchanging more than just the usual polite pleasantries.

"What a lovely hat you're wearing, miss!" one shopkeeper said to her as she passed a stall, decorated with _"fine, hand-painted china",_ according to the sign above.

She blushed and smiled and thanked the woman who spoke to her.

"And what a lovely flower you have there! White roses; always me favorite. Hard to come by this time of year."

She blushed but smiled again, turning over her shoulder to look at Tom who was standing nearby. She decided to be a little bold then and turned back to the woman with a grin, adding, "Thank you, my fiancée gave it to me."

"OH!" the woman gasped, turning and smiling at Tom. "Lovely! Congratulations!" she grinned and gave Sybil a wink. "He's a handsome one dearie; best keep your eyes on him! I know plenty that would love to snatch a man like him up!"

Sybil bit her lip, trying to keep herself from giggling, but it was very difficult. She glanced again at Tom who, bless him, looked so embarrassed. "Don't worry," she replied, grinning at him and taking his hand in hers. "I won't let them."

The shopkeeper chuckled and then tried her best to convince Sybil to purchase a set of her "fine, hand-painted" china cups. "Every bride needs a fine set like this when setting up her house!" she declared.

Sybil politely declined and thanked the shopkeeper, moving on before the woman tried another sales tactic. Then again, as much as she enjoyed speaking with the shopkeepers, it was a little difficult to say "no" them. "It's a miracle anyone is able to leave this road without spending a fortune!"

He laughed but there was still some red in his cheeks from the exchange with the shopkeeper. "Yes, one has to harden their hearts sometimes when dealing with market sellers. Mam is very good; I remember helping her on market day when I was a lad, and I would stare in amazement as she commanded those stalls like a queen. No one ever tried to outwit her or sell her something that wasn't worth its price."

Sybil found herself smiling at this, imagining Tom as a boy, carrying the basket for his mother as she walked amongst the stalls and carts in Dublin, purchasing fruits and vegetables, eggs and cheese. Perhaps buying meat as well? "Maybe your mother can give me some tips?" she grinned, blushing as soon as the words escaped her lips. They hadn't talked much about his family; she knew he was the eldest of six (one brother, five sisters, the eldest one married), that his mother was a widower, and of course, she knew about his cousin Martin, who had been very dear to him.

Tom stiffened a little at her words, and Sybil found her brow furrowing. "What is it?" she asked, noticing how the light in his eyes seemed to dim a little, as if a troubled thought passed over him.

He cleared his throat and shook his head. "Nothing…um…I just—"

"Good day to you sir!"

They both turned to a seller who was grinning at the two of them, his eyes locked on the place where her hand was wrapped around Tom's arm.

"May I interest you in purchasing something for your sweetheart?"

Now it was Sybil's cheeks that began to glow with heat.

Tom put on a smile and politely shook his head. "Thank you, but—"

"Oh look at those pretty blue eyes!" a woman exclaimed, coming up next to the seller and grinning at Sybil. "Like sapphires, wouldn't you say my love?"

"Aye, that's right, like two lovely blue sapphires," the man agreed a nod.

Sybil's blush burned even brighter, but she couldn't help but smile at the flattery. She knew it wasn't ill intended, but she also knew they were hoping to use it as a means to get her and Tom to purchase something from their stall, which now that she looked at it, could see that it was covered with an assortment of colorful scarves and pretty glass beads.

"I have just the thing for you my dear!" the woman grinned, leaning across the stall and producing a light blue scarf with gold thread around the trim. "Oooohh how lovely! Yes, yes, this brings out the blue in your eyes just so!"

"Don't you agree sir?" the man grinned, looking at Tom with a hopeful smile.

Tom sighed and glanced at Sybil. She was blushing and trying to contain her own giggles while quietly shaking her head at the scarf. "I don't think so, but thank you—"

"Ivory!" the woman was determined. "Pink and ivory! They match your skin so elegantly, don't you think?" she asked Sybil, producing two more scarves. "Come, come, have a look in my glass here!" she motioned for Sybil to follow her to the end of the stall, where a small looking glass resided. "See what I mean? See how the fabric enhances your beauty?"

Sybil blushed and glanced at Tom, who was smiling at her as he watched her "deal" with the shopkeeper's wife. Well, she needed to learn somewhere! "Alright," she sighed, turning and giving the woman a smile. "I'll have a look, but I make no promises."

The woman waved her hand in a slightly dismissive motion, one that caused Sybil to roll her eyes slightly when she wasn't looking. Yes, she could use some lessons in "hardening one's heart" in such cases, but then again, she couldn't deny, the scarves did look rather lovely.

Tom stayed where he was, continuing to smile and admire Sybil from the distance as she examined the scarves before her. His hands were in his pockets and he could feel his wallet. He wanted to buy her a gift, something more than the white rose that decorated her hat. Perhaps a scarf from Portobello Road? Surely they weren't that expensive? Although this thought did make him frown. He wished that such worries and realities weren't an issue; that he could simply buy her anything she fancied, no matter the price. But he was not a wealthy man…and never would be. And while he wanted to think of himself as "proper socialist", one who didn't care about such things, he knew that every so often, such material thoughts did invade his mind…and wound his pride.

"Sir!" the shopkeeper hissed. Tom sighed and turned to look at the man who had been left to haggle him. "Sir…perhaps while your lady friend is otherwise occupied…have you considered…?"

He didn't finish his sentence, he didn't really have to. The gesture of his hands to the wares before him was meant to be enough to get the point across. Tom looked down at the "jewels" that were before him. He knew they weren't real gemstones, and most likely made of glass, yet some of the pieces were lovely, he couldn't deny…and it was just another reminder that he didn't have a ring for Sybil.

A bride without a ring; it was perhaps the poorest he had ever felt.

_"I don't care about that…"_

He looked up at Sybil, thinking he had heard her speak, but realizing she was still talking to the shopkeeper's wife and admiring the scarves the woman was holding out for her to try on.

_"I will not let such thoughts ruin this moment; we'll take care of the ring later, but let us not worry about it right now…is that clear?"_

Memories of the two of them in the garage the night when she told him she loved him and that she wanted to marry him, that she was ready to travel and he was her ticket. He remembered worrying about not having a ring to give her, but he also remembered her insistence that it didn't matter. "The rest is detail..." he whispered to himself.

"Sir?"

He glanced at the shopkeeper who was still trying to entice him into purchasing one of his jeweled bracelets or necklaces, but whose smile was a little less hopeful as before. Tom sighed and turned his face towards Sybil, who clearly was struggling in saying "no" to the shopkeeper's wife.

"I like the ivory one," he commented.

Sybil turned to look at him. It was ivory in color, but had blue thread running along its edges, with tiny flowers embroidered in the corners.

"YES!" the shopkeeper's wife quickly spoke, recognizing a chance to make a sale. "It doesn't outshine her, does it? The blue in the edges captures the sparkle in her eyes, but the color is soft enough to enhance the glow of her cheek…"

Sybil bit her lip and looked away from the woman, her eyes meeting his and giving a playful roll, aware that the woman was trying to sweeten the sale, but her eyes widened as she watched her fiancée pull his wallet out of his pocket. "Tom, you don't have to—"

"It matches your rose," he murmured, smiling as his eyes moved to the flower still pinned to her hat. "And she is right, it does enhance the glow of your cheek."

"Oh stop it," she muttered, biting her lip and looking down at her feet, but glancing up at him through her lashes and seeing his warm smile, full of love and admiration. "You don't have to—" she whispered, repeating the words she had started to say earlier, but Tom stepped forward and took the scarf from her hands.

"I want to, please?" he asked softly, smiling down at her. "As a way to honor our holiday together?"

Oh gracious, how could she refuse him now? With a soft sigh, she nodded her assent and Tom grinned at her, handing the scarf to the shopkeeper who looked very proud at his wife for making the sale, before quickly wrapping it in brown paper and string.

The price for the scarf was reasonable, and Tom didn't want to haggle over money in front of Sybil (he wasn't perfect, he did have some pride to maintain). They continued walking through Portobello Road, pausing again at a book stall, where they spent a bulk of their time searching through the stacks and sharing their discoveries with each other. Tom held her package for her, and Sybil kept glancing at him, nibbling on her bottom lip and thinking about the words he had said. _"As a way to honor our holiday together…"_

"I want to buy you something too! Please?"

"Sybil—"

"Don't go and throw my words back at me from earlier, or I'll throw yours back at you," she said with a shake of her finger, which earned her a laugh and a sigh of acceptance. He then hinted that he loved the journal she had bought him all those years ago, that was now filled to capacity with notes and entries (he didn't go into detail as to what those entries were) and over the years he had been stuffing loose pages into its binding in an effort to keep everything together. So with a proud smile, happy and thrilled that Tom had appreciated and loved the gift she had given him from all those summers ago, she purchased another journal, one with a fine leather cover, but also (more for Tom's peace of mind) one that was a decent price (certainly no more expensive than the scarf he had bought her).

"Thank you," he murmured, accepting the gift of the journal from her.

She grinned and nodded her head. "You're most welcome, Mr. Branson." She then leaned up on her toes and brushed her lips against his. "Now we're even."

"Not quite, milady…" he playfully growled, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her closer.

Sybil giggled and eagerly tilted her head for his kiss. "Oh the things I suffer for equal rights."

* * *

><p>Unfortunately, the time to return came all too soon. The anxiety Sybil had managed to ignore began to flare up in her chest as they began the journey back. Now, all she could think about was the evening ahead, where she would be forced to endure Larry Grey's company. Even if both her sisters succeeded in taking seats next to her tonight, it would still mean having to endure his presence in that box, and outside the theatre, and at dinner! And knowing her Aunt Rosamond, she would try to find some way to get Sybil and Larry alone, even if it was just for a few minutes. And while yes, it was perhaps possible that Larry had changed since she last saw him…she just hated the thought of having to spend an evening in the company of another man whom her aunt and his mother were clearly hoping to "reignite" some sort of "lost spark" when Sybil's heart already belonged to another!<p>

"Love?"

She looked up at Tom and saw the concern on his face. Oh Lord, what would he say if he knew the truth? Would he be angry with her_? I should have told him earlier, but I didn't want to "ruin" our time together, but now I'm going to ruin it all for having omitted the truth, but—_

"Where are you staying?"

She was surprised by the question that she had asked, perhaps more so than he.

His eyes widened slightly and he swallowed somewhat nervously. "Near Piccadilly," he explained. "There's a pub there that has rooms above—I stayed there the last time I was in London."

Piccadilly. "What's the name of the pub?"

Tom's eyebrows lifted at her question. "The Yorkshire Rose," he answered, a small blush flooding his face as he spoke, as well as a bashful smile. "Suppose fate was trying to tell me something all those years ago…"

Sybil blushed but nodded her head to his words. A plan was starting to form…

"Love, are you alright?" he stopped walking, his hand squeezing hers and encouraging her to pause and look at him. "Something's troubling you, I noticed it earlier today, but…" he sighed and shook his head. "Please, tell me? Is it something to do with your aunt or your sisters?"

She wasn't sure what to say. In less than twenty minutes she was to be reunited with Edith and the two of them would go to meet Mary at some tea room on Oxford Street before returning to Eaton Square to make themselves ready for the evening. And honestly, the last thing she wanted was for these final minutes to be used in trying to explain to Tom who the Grey family was and what her aunt's designs were for the evening. So instead, Sybil used an altogether different tactic: distraction.

"Here!"

Tom's brow furrowed. "Here?" His eyes followed her finger, which was pointing at a nearby shop…and his mouth fell open as he realized what the place was.

"I want to go in here," Sybil simply explained.

"I…I…um…" Tom was stuttering and swallowing as he continued to stare at the shop's window and the merchandise that it specialized in selling. "Sybil…" he swallowed and turned back to look at her. "I um…I don't think I can—"

"No, I doubt you can," she bit her lip to control her giggles at the blush that was spreading across his face as he continued to glance back and forth between herself and the shop sign. "After all, it would be all the gossip, wouldn't it? Tom Branson, Irish Republican Socialist; inside a shop that specializes in lady's 'unmentionables'."

He groaned and shook his head. "You enjoy teasing me—"

"That goes without saying," she grinned up at him. "But I am actually quite serious; I do want to go in there."

He stared at her blankly. "But…but whatever for?"

Her hand moved to cover her lips to try and control her laughter. "Why? Well to purchase something for my wedding night, of course."

His knees practically buckled beneath him at her words. Holy God in heaven.

"Sybil…" he managed to finally murmur when he was sure his voice wouldn't be a squeak.

"Didn't I say a bride is allowed to do some shopping for herself before her wedding?" she giggled. "This is exactly what I meant…" she leaned closer, feeling rather bold and whispered, "…although I suppose it's just as much a gift for you as it is for me."

He groaned and this time actually did reach out to grip nearby post to keep his legs from giving out beneath him.

"Here," she announced, handing him the package that was her scarf. "I'll be very quick, I promise," and before he could say or do anything else, she turned on her heel and flitted into the shop, blushing and giggling as the bell above the shop door tingled to announce her entry.

A woman with a thick French accent greeted her and asked if she wanted any help with anything; that she would be just a moment as she was seeing to another customer. Sybil smiled and nodded her thanks, looking around at what was there and felt her cheeks flood with color as she took in a beautiful, white corset with a silken ribbon down the back. While she detested corsets, she did think this one looked rather pretty, and perhaps it would be a good idea to wear one beneath her wedding gown. Oh Lord, her wedding gown! Perhaps she could purchase that in Dublin? Perhaps Tom's mother could help her find something? Perhaps—OH!

Her attention was caught off guard as she noticed a mannequin displaying a beautiful, white, lacy brassiere. A brassiere! She had always been curious about them, and Susan owned several and they certainly seemed to make a great deal more sense than a silly corset, and they certainly looked a great deal more comfortable than a silly corset! Perhaps…perhaps she would get _both? _

She as grinning and blushing so much at the idea, she didn't realize that someone was approaching her.

"Oh gracious…Sybil?"

She turned her head and felt all the color drain from her face as she held the gaze of Mariah Grey—Larry's sister.

* * *

><p><em>UH OH! Now what? And will Sybil *still* have to meetendure Larry Grey? Or...is she up to something? ;o)_


	146. Holiday Interrupted

_This is an example of a chapter that truly took on a life of it's own. I had no plans on making this chapter as long as it grew, until I reached a point where I realized I *had* to cut it in half, so that's what you're getting...the first half of this monster chapter, which does mean there is some angst, but the GOOD NEWS is that the next "half" to it, is nearly finished, and should hopefully be posted sometime early on Thursday, yay! So you won't have to wait in the throes of angst for too long!_

_I never thought my "London holiday" sections to this story would go on as long as they have, but readers seem to enjoy them, so I hope you don't mind that we continue in London before heading back to Downton :oP I dedicate this chapter to the lovely **mimijag** (an amazing Sybil/Tom author) who told me that she was going on holiday herself to London, so this chapter (and the next) are dedicated to her in preparation for that trip! ENJOY!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Forty-Six<strong>

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE'S NOT COMING!?"

Sybil winced as she heard her aunt's voice echo off the walls of the corridor as her sisters "gently" informed her that the youngest Crawley sister was "indisposed" and would not be joining them for their evening out.

She had a feeling Aunt Rosamond would react this way, and Sybil couldn't help but feel a little bit of guilt. However, she had no intentions of changing her mind, either. While having tea earlier with her sisters, they both looked worried for her, remarking on how pale and tired she looked, and Mary reached over and touched Sybil's hand, gasping at how cold it felt. Sybil hardly touched a crumb on her plate, and drank very little tea, despite both Mary and Edith's insistence. In the end, the two older Crawley sisters proclaimed that Sybil was in no condition to do much this evening, other than return to Eaton Square and go straight to bed; they would make their excuses to Aunt Rosamond for her. Sybil couldn't deny she was grateful for that; she hated the thought of having to confront her aunt just now, especially after all her grand "matchmaking" plans. But she knew what her sisters said was true; she really was in no condition to be going out with them, and she would be terrible company.

Although perhaps there was some merit to that? Maybe by being terrible company, the Greys would want to have nothing to do with her ever again?

_No, they'll want nothing to do with you after they learn the news that you've married the chauffeur._

Just then the door to her room burst open, and her aunt stood there, a deep scowl on her face, her arms folded and glaring at Sybil, while Mary and Edith came tumbling in behind her. "Sybil," her aunt began, her eyes taking in Sybil's state. "Your sisters tell me you're not feeling very well."

It was not a question, but an accusation. Sybil glanced at her sisters, both of whom looked utterly exhausted, no doubt from the amount of explaining they had to do in order to convince their aunt to let her be. Lord, she would miss them both.

Aunt Rosamond made a bit of a huff, drawing Sybil's attention back to her, and quickly taking notice to how her aunt's scowl had darkened. "You look well enough to me," she commented with a slight tap of her foot.

"Aunt Rosamond…" Mary began, her voice weary, but firm. "You didn't see Sybil at tea; she was pale and her skin was cold and clammy. I honestly do not think it would be wise for her to go out, especially considering the evening's chill and the crush we will no doubt encounter at the theatre—"

"Yes, thank you Mary, so I remember you saying earlier!" Aunt Rosamond practically hissed, throwing her hand up into the air, a dismissive gesture telling everyone to keep their thoughts to themselves.

Sybil bit her lip and tugged the sheets a little closer to her chin. "I'm sorry for inconvenience Aunt Rosamond—"

"Inconvenience!" her aunt groaned with a shake of her head. "Very appropriate words, my dear, very appropriate!" Aunt Rosamond began to pace the floor of her room in a most agitated state. "After all the arrangements Lord H went through! After all his hard work in securing us that box for the evening!"

Sybil was beginning to grow irritated herself, now. "Well please give Lord Hepworth my apologies," she all but muttered to her aunt, trying in vain to keep calm and not lash out, but her aunt wasn't making it easy for her, especially when she began moaning about how disappointing this was all going to be for the Greys.

"And what will poor Larry say?" her aunt continued. "He was so looking forward to seeing you again! Imagine his disappointment!"

Sybil couldn't care less what Larry Grey thought. As far as she was concerned, she was perfectly fine with never seeing the man again. Yet despite the urge to lash out at her aunt's unfair accusations, she took a deep breath and tried to maintain an air of civility that both her sisters had perfected over the years. "It's been over five years since Mr. Grey and I have spoken to each other, much less seen one another; I doubt he will be very disappointed, but if you would be so kind as to pass along my apologies—"

"Oh for heaven's sake, Sybil, this is most vexing!"

"Aunt Rosamond, you are being unfair," Mary intervened, which was a good thing since Sybil wasn't sure she would be able to hold her temper for much longer. "Sybil hasn't fallen ill for her own amusement; I'm sure if she were well she would be delighted to attend, wouldn't you darling?"

Mary knew her feelings about Larry Grey better than anyone. And Sybil could see a question in her sister's eyes when she turned to look at her. However, she also saw understanding in their dark depths as well, and Sybil simply swallowed and nodded her head.

"There, see?" Mary said turning once again to their aunt. "It is a shame, to be sure, but these things do happen."

Aunt Rosamond still didn't look so convinced. She turned then to Edith, who was still standing in the doorway observing the whole affair. "What happened today?" Aunt Rosamond demanded. "Was she like this earlier when the two of you were shopping? Something must have happened!"

Edith's mouth fell open and she stared at both her aunt and her eldest sister who was lifting one of her finely delicate brows in question. Edith turned to Sybil then and Sybil's heart went out to her sister who had done so much for her recently in seeing that both she and Tom have this opportunity to be together.

"I…I mean, she…that is, we, were perfectly fine earlier," Edith attempted to explain. "Perhaps we walked a little too much—"

"Oh Edith, really!" Aunt Rosamond groaned.

"Edith did nothing wrong," Sybil defended. "This isn't her fault, and she's right, I was perfectly fine while we were shopping." _I was perfectly fine up until I saw Mariah Grey in that shop. _

"Oh no, Edith is not the one _I_ blame," her aunt muttered. "But I do wish you had been paying closer attention to Sybil to take notice if she was starting to show signs of fatigue," she said to Edith, her scowl never lifting.

Sybil closed her eyes and groaned, before opening them and catching Edith's gaze. She hoped her sister could see how sorry she was for dragging her into the middle of this. She hoped Edith would forgive her and that their aunt wouldn't let this ruin the evening for everyone. But Edith gave her a small smile, one that caused Sybil's heart to lift slightly at the sweet assurance and understanding she saw in her eyes. She would forever be in Edith's debt for this precious holiday, and she would gladly spend the rest of her life trying to find ways to thank her for the love and support she had provided to them both.

"Aunt Rosamond," Mary took command of the room once again, like the Countess everyone believed she was born to be. "We really should let Sybil get her rest so she is well enough for our journey back to Downton tomorrow; also we do not want to keep the Greys…or Lord Hepworth waiting, now do we?"

That was the magic word it seemed, because suddenly, Aunt Rosamond's expression changed at the mention of Lord Hepworth, and her hands immediately flew to her head, as if trying to fix her perfectly groomed coif. "Yes…well, you're right, we mustn't keep him—them," she corrected herself, "waiting." She turned once more to Sybil, her scowl returning once again, although not looking as harsh as before. "I shall express our apologies to Lady Merton and her family—especially dear Larry, when we see them this evening."

Sybil forced a smile and nodded her head. "Thank you, aunt; I appreciate that and once again, I am sorry—"

"Yes, well…do keep in mind, Sybil, that…the War, while it has been most unkind to the young men of this country, has also been very unkind to women."

Sybil swallowed and felt her cheeks burn at the implication of her aunt's words. _She thinks Larry is my last chance? _It was true; they were saying in the papers that an entire generation had been lost in the War, and Sybil could believe it, based on the number of poor souls she had seen in the hospital over the past three years. But she resented her aunt's unsubtle hint that she should get down on her knees and thank her lucky stars that Larry Grey was unmarried and interested in rekindling whatever relationship her aunt believed they had once shared.

"Just keep that in mind," she said as her parting words, before finally turning and floating out the door, leaving both Edith and Mary to follow in her wake.

"Insufferable woman," Sybil muttered under her breath.

Mary had heard her and gave her a look of warning, before turning and bending down to brush a kiss against Sybil's brow. "Feel better," she murmured.

Sybil forced a smile again, only it was a little more genuine this time. "Thank you…and I pray that you both do have a lovely evening, truly."

"We shall do our best," Mary sighed, putting on a false smile of her own, before turning and heading towards the door. "Come on, Edith; best not keep Aunt Rosamond waiting."

"I'll be right there," Edith assured, now coming to Sybil's side, leaning down to give her sister a kiss on the brow just as Mary had done. Mary nodded her head and left the room, and soon as she was out of sight, Edith looked at Sybil and hissed, "Is everything alright? Did something happen with Bran—I mean, with Tom—"

Sybil bit her lip and quickly made a shushing sound to get Edith to stop speaking. Mary had left the room, but that didn't mean she had gone very far. "Everything is _fine_," Sybil stated quite plainly. "I mean, I am feeling a little tired and…and I don't really feel like I'm up for a night at the theatre, but…but I will be fine. Just…too much walking today, that's all."

Edith gave her a look, not completely believing Sybil's story. After all, of the three of them, Sybil took the longest walks and rarely complained about fatigue or sore feet. Still, now was not the time to ask further questions, and so with a resolute sigh, Edith kissed Sybil's forehead, before taking her own leave and finally, leaving Sybil all to herself at last.

She waited until she heard their feet descend the stairs, and give final farewells to the butler downstairs, before she collapsed back against her pillows and let the far too soft mattress enfold her like quicksand.

"Oh Lord…" she groaned, lifting her hands to her face and covering her eyes, pressing the heels of her palms against them as memories of the afternoon returned, memories that led to her odd behavior at tea and ultimately to her decision that it would be best that she stay behind from the evening's activities.

_ "Oh gracious…Sybil?"_

_ She had been leaning forward, examining the lovely embroidered lace on the white brassiere that had just caught her eye, when she heard her name…and lifted her eyes to see who the voice belonged to._

_ Mariah Grey._

_ Larry's sister._

_ Mariah was a year younger than herself (thirteen months to be precise), yet even though she wasn't officially "out" in society, Sybil's family did invite Mariah to attend her ball, and Lord and Lady Merton did bring her specifically to London that season just so she could. Still, that had been the last time Sybil had seen Mariah Grey, who, while quite pretty with ebony curls that framed her round-cherub face and bounced delightfully whenever she turned her head, Sybil did remember her being a bit…silly. _

_Of course, Mariah was only seventeen at the time, and was very excited to be allowed to attend a London ball and to have the opportunity to dance (although it would only be with the her father, brother, and Sybil's father), but still, Mariah didn't care. She happily stood off to the side of the room with her mother, asking all sorts of questions and giggling whenever a finely dressed man passed and bowed his head. Sybil's own mother felt sorry that Mariah was more or less condemned to spend a bulk of the ball away from the dance floor, so at certain points during the party, encouraged Sybil to take Mariah's arm and take a turn about the room, educating the young lady on how to be a proper hostess when it was her turn the following season. Yet Mariah could not stop giggling and tittering whenever she laid eyes on any man between the ages of 18 to 30. And it was impossible to hold a conversation with her, or at least to hold a conversation with her on any subject that wasn't "the latest fashions in Paris" or "He's handsome! Do you know who he is? Do you think he fancies me?" _

_That had been over five years ago…yet as she stood there in the shop, meeting Mariah's shining gray eyes and hearing her shrill laugh fill the space around them upon recognizing her, Sybil had a feeling that the girl had changed very little._

_ "OH IT IS YOU!" Mariah cried, and rushed forward to embrace Sybil. She was too stunned to return the embrace, but that didn't seem to bother the exuberant Miss Grey. "Oh Sybil, how wonderful!" Mariah grinned, taking Sybil's hands in both of hers and stepping away as if to look at her and admire her. "Oh my dear, dear Sybil…why…why you've hardly changed!"_

_Sybil blushed, but was still in too much shock to reply. She was never sure if this was a compliment, because she always remembered friends of her mother and grandmother murmuring about how she was pretty, but it was a shame that she didn't have a figure like Mary or Edith's, but that it was nothing that a "good corset" couldn't fix. And even though Mariah hadn't said anything of the sort, the way she eyed Sybil's waist and hips suddenly brought those self-conscious feelings back. _

_ "I…I um…" she was stumbling over her words. "It's lovely to see you too, Mariah…"_

_ Mariah giggled and released Sybil's hands, before doing a little turn as if showing off her fine coat and mink shawl. "Well, what do you think?" she giggled. "Haven't I grown into a proper lady?"_

_ Sybil simply nodded her head while forcing a smile. She was still too stunned by this strange coincidence; the sister of the very man she was dreading to be reunited with was standing right in front of her…_

Oh Lord, she's going to tell everyone about this meeting! About running into me…HERE!

_"Oh Sybil, I'm so excited about this evening!" Mariah went on, as if the two of them were having the most natural conversation, despite standing in the middle of a lingerie shop. "What good fortune for my mother and your aunt to run into one another yesterday! And how splendid is it that you and your sisters came to London, even though it is hardly the fashionable time to visit," she continued babbling. "Oh but I do love the city, I must confess—Harry adores it too, in fact he's thinking of getting a bigger house on Eaton Square; isn't that where your aunt lives? Yes, he says it's to be my wedding present; isn't that thoughtful?" Mariah giggled._

_ Sybil was struggling with keeping up. "Harry?"_

_ "Oh yes! Viscount Westbury," Mariah explained, before removing a glove and thrusting her hand forward to display the rather large and somewhat blinding diamond that adorned her fourth finger._

_ Sybil forced another smile again, trying to look happy for the girl who was beaming at her ring. "It's lovely," she murmured. In truth, she found it to be quite gaudy, but this was a moment to keep one's opinion to one's self. "Congratulations."_

_ Mariah grinned. "Yes, I am lucky—not yet twenty-two and I have made one of the most brilliant matches in all Society! That's why I'm here; purchasing some items for our honeymoon. Did you know Harry is going to take me to Greece for our honeymoon? Oh it shall be grand!" she happily sighed. _

_Then, her expression changed then to one of pity. "Yes, I suppose I should count my blessings; so many girls our age will become dried-up old spinsters because of the War; ugh, a fate worse than death, surely!"_

_ Sybil frowned at this. "There are worse things," she muttered under her breath._

_ Mariah shook her head. "I honestly can't imagine what they could be," she sighed. "Not that someone like you will ever have to worry about that, of course!" she giggled, causing Sybil to pale slightly. Did Mariah know something…?_

_ "W-w-what?"_

_ Mariah continued giggling as if she had just shared the most wonderful joke with Sybil; Sybil only wished she knew what the joke was._

_"Oh Sybil, I'm talking about Larry, of course!" Mariah explained, giggling again. She then leaned closer, as if she were about to share a huge secret. "He's looking forward to this evening," she whispered. "He couldn't stop talking about it last night, asking Mama all sorts of questions—wondering if she had seen you, if you had changed much, that sort of thing…" her eyes lowered then to Sybil's hands and Sybil felt her breath catch as she realized that the girl was checking her fingers to see if_ she _was_ _wearing a ring! "I'll be _more_ than happy to give him a full report when I see him at tea," Mariah continued with a conspiratorial grin._

_Sybil felt as if a giant, cold weight had been dropped in her stomach at Mariah's words. She felt nauseous and lightheaded and she needed to get out of there._

_ "Oh just think, Sybil! By next Christmas…we could be _sisters!"

_ She had to literally reach out and grab hold of the nearby mannequin to keep her legs from giving out at Mariah's words._

_ "Ah, mademoiselle, how may I help you?" came the cheerful voice of the shop girl who had greeted Sybil when she had first arrived. "Are you interested in this brassiere?"_

_"Oh my!" Mariah gasped, taking notice of the lacy brassiere. "Oh Sybil, how daring!" she grinned, completely oblivious to Sybil's agitated state. "Well, have no fear; I promise not to share _that_ detail with Larry," she said with a wink._

_Sybil's breathing was coming in short, quick gasps. The shop girl's pleasant smile was fading and she seemed to be noticing that something wasn't right, while Mariah continued to prattle on. "Oh! Harry is here!" Mariah's shrill voice suddenly sang when she glanced behind Sybil and gazed out the shop window. "Well, I must go; after all, he's been such a dear in putting up with my shopping habits," she giggled to herself, before waving a hand at Sybil. "I'll see you this evening! And I look forward to it…as does someone else," she said with a wink, before turning and leaving at last, the shop bell echoing in her wake._

_ "Mademoiselle?" the shop girl nervously murmured, as Sybil followed Mariah's exiting figure, now seeing her greet a rather portly looking gentleman who was a good twenty years her senior (at least) and who in all honestly, looked extremely bored, especially as Mariah took his arm and began prattling on and on, as if picking up a previous conversation that had been on hold while she had come inside to make her purchases. _

"_Mademoiselle?"_

_Sybil turned away from the window, and looked back the woman who looked genuinely concerned. "I beg your pardon, but…are you alright?"_

_Her breathing had calmed slightly, but she was still shaking. Her heart was racing too as she suddenly recalled all the things that Mariah had said, about how much Larry was looking forward to seeing her again, about giving him a "full report" about how she fared since the last time he had seen her; and perhaps the most chilling of all, about the notice that Sybil wore no ring and had no attachment (as far as the rest of the world was concerned)._

"_I…I'm sorry," Sybil gasped, giving the shop girl an apologetic smile, before turning on her heel and exiting the shop herself, amazed that her legs were capable of walking, let alone holding her up at all, because in truth, her knees felt like jelly, like she would collapse at any second—_

"_Hey!"_

_Sybil gasped and turned when she felt something strong grasp her wrist._ Tom.

_He was grinning at her, glancing over his shoulder at the shop window. "You go in there and not say anything upon coming out?" he chuckled. "I at least expected you to shake a 'mysterious package' in my face…" his teasing quickly faded as he no doubt must have noticed the somewhat panicked expression on her face. Oh Lord, how must she look?_

"_What's wrong?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm. His hand rose to cup her cheek. "Sybil, what is it? What happened?"_

"_I…" her throat felt tight, and she was still shaking from her encounter with Mariah Grey. "I...it's nothing—"_

"_Please," he pleaded, leading her away from the street, trying to offer them as much privacy as possible by leading towards a small ally between the lingerie shop and another building. "Something's troubling you and I want to help; and even if you don't think that's possible, I still want to try…" he offered a small smile, but she could see the worry in his eyes as he tenderly stroked her cheek with his thumb. "What happened? Was it…was it something inside the shop?"_

_They were going to be late. Edith would be pacing nervously, wondering where they were. And if she were late meeting Edith, that would mean they would be late meeting Mary, who no doubt would be full of questions as to why they were late, which sadly would lead to an argument between her two older sisters, and that was all she needed right now; witnessing yet another argument between Mary and Edith before attending a dinner that she didn't want to attend, and being forced to withstand Larry Grey's company._

_But when she looked up into Tom's face, and saw his eyes full of love and concern and hope that somehow he truly could help, she didn't have the heart to say another lie. She hated deceit; and he was the last person she should be lying to._

_So it all came tumbling out. She told him that the woman who had exited the shop before her was the daughter of an old family friend. Tom thought perhaps she was upset out of fear that Mariah would say something to give them both away, but he soon realized that no…it was much, much worse._

"_Aunt Rosamond has arranged for us all go to the theatre tonight," Sybil explained. "And…and she's invited Mariah's family to join us…"_

_Tom's brow furrowed in confusion. "And…you don't wish to attend?"_

_She shook her head and took a deep breath. "Mariah has a brother…" she finally said. _

_The expression on his face changed then. The confusion that had been there began to give way to understanding. And she saw him stiffen as realization suddenly dawned on him. "A brother…" he repeated._

_Sybil closed her eyes and inwardly groaned. She should have said something earlier. This was much, much worse. _

"_I see…" he murmured. "And…and do you…do you know this…" his words were becoming clipped then and he swallowed and forced himself to continue, "…this 'brother' of your friend?"_

"_She's not my friend," Sybil was quick to answer. "I said that she's the daughter of a friend of my family's but I never said—"_

"_Right, right," Tom muttered more to himself than to her. "And clearly your aunt is rather keen on the two of you…'renewing' your friendship."_

"_Tom," she began._

"_What? It's true, isn't it?" he asked, his voice defensive. "Why else would she have made these arrangements? Why else would you be as upset as you are now?" He turned away then, and she noticed how his hands were balled into fists at his sides. "You never answered my question, Sybil; do you know him?"_

_She was getting angry, but now her anger was directed at him. "I told you that he and his sister are children are old friends of my family, so what do you think?"_

_He glared back at her. "I don't know, because posh people have a strange way of describing 'friends'; you also told me that she wasn't your 'friend' when I described her as such, so forgive me,_ milady, _if it's not very clear to a poor bumbling working class—"_

"_Stop it!" she hissed, glaring up at him. "Yes, of course I know him, and I can't stand him! He's a boar, he's conceited, he's…he's a bully, or he certainly was, from what I remember—"_

"_Did he hurt you?"_

_The anger that was in his voice suddenly shifted to Larry, a man who he had never met, but she saw the fire in his eyes ignite at the thought that Larry may have at one point caused her any sort of pain. But what could she say? She loved Tom deeply, but he couldn't protect her and keep her safe from the childhood bullies of her past. There was no point in trying to pick such fights. Still, there was no point in kindling that fire and going into details now, of all times, about Larry's behavior towards her the last time she had seen him and his once attempt at stealing a kiss before she slapped him away. "No," she assured. "And when Aunt Rosamond told me she had invited them, I did not welcome the news; in truth, I have been dreading the idea of having to see them at all!"_

_Tom looked at her then, and Sybil felt her heart stop at the pain she saw in his eyes and once again, realization dawned on him. "This morning…" he murmured. "When I asked you if everything was alright…"_

_Sybil sighed and looked down at her feet, shame filling her at the disappointment she no doubt had caused him. "Yes…" she whispered with a nod of her head. _

_Tom turned away then and Sybil felt her heart break at the sight. "Were you…" he paused to collect himself. "Were you ever going to tell me?"_

"_Tom—"_

"_It's not that I don't trust you," he quickly explained. "I do, and…and I know you love me—"_

"_I _do_ love you!" she reached forward then and grasped his hand in hers, bringing it to her lips and kissing his knuckles reverently, trying so hard to keep the tears that were stinging her eyes from falling. "I do love you," she whispered again. "So much…and I hate that I can't shout it to the world like I did that night we were driving to Gretna Green."_

_A heavy sigh escaped his lungs and he pulled her close, and she let out a shaky, thankful breath as his arms moved around her, drawing her to him. "God forgive me, I can't help but feel jealous," he confessed against her hair. "That bastard will get to see you in your finery, sit next to you, talk to you…" his words faded, and Sybil felt him stiffen; no doubt trying very hard to fight off whatever awful images his mind had created. "I…I'm not going to get any sleep tonight," he confessed, a painful laugh escaping his throat. "All I'm going to be thinking about is him trying to touch you—"_

"_He won't!" Sybil insisted, her hands moving up to draw his face back to look at her. "He won't; because I won't let him. And neither will Mary or Edith," she tried to reassure, but he didn't look so easily convinced. _

"_It would be one thing if he were like that old friend of yours…" he murmured, and she knew he meant Tom Bellasis. "I was jealous then, as you know," he said somewhat sheepishly. "But he was a good man; a gentleman. And at least now, unlike then, I can take comfort in the knowledge that you love me back._ _But_ this _is worse; if everything you say about the bastard is true—I mean, I know you can take care of yourself, Sybil, I don't doubt that, but…but I love you and I want to protect you from monsters like that, and God help me, I just…I feel so powerless."_

"_Oh, Tom—"_

"_I'm sorry, Sybil, I mean it, I do trust you, and I wish I wasn't so weak—"_

"_You're not!" she insisted. She wanted to say more, but there wasn't the chance. A pair of shoes could be heard walking towards them in a most agitated manner and both of them looked up to see her sister coming towards them, her expression irate._

"_Where have you been!" she hissed in exasperation. "You were supposed to meet me at quarter to four, and it's nearly four o'clock now! I've been sitting inside that bookshop," she pointed to the place just a few yards away, "For nearly an hour, waiting for you! Mary is going to be asking questions, and I hope you have some excellent excuses stored away when we meet her!"_

_Sybil groaned and felt ready to lash out at her sister (which would be completely unfair, but that was how she felt), however Tom gave her hand a squeeze and put on a smile, even though it was obvious it was strained. _

"_Forgive me, milady," he apologized to Edith. "It's completely my fault; you can tell Lady Mary if she asks that you were simply trying to help some poor soul find his way around London; that he was lost but you came to his rescue."_

_Edith frowned and glanced at Sybil. "Is everything alright?"_

_Sybil groaned again, not wanting to retell the tale once again to her sister. But Tom was quick with his answers and reassured that yes, everything was fine. He then handed Sybil her small package, the scarf he had bought her on Portobello Road. He gave a little bow then, murmured his goodbyes, and without another word, turned on his heel and quickly crossed the street, leaving her standing by Edith's side, her heart shattering with each retreating step that he took._

With a groan Sybil somehow managed to sit up in bed and fling the bedcovers off her. The illness she had felt at tea was a result of this confrontation and her dread about seeing Larry Grey again. She didn't want to have anything to do with Larry, and after revealing everything to Tom, the very thought of encountering him made her stomach turn. So when her sisters insisted that she return to rest, she didn't argue. She went along with the belief that she was ill, that she needed to stay home and avoid all company.

Only that wasn't entirely true, either.

Because there was the company of one person more than any other that she wanted to be in, and despite her ill feelings during tea, a plan had begun to form in her mind based on the bits and pieces of information Tom had given her earlier.

She moved across the room to her dressing table and sat down, opening a drawer and removing the precious scarf Tom had bought her. She ran her fingers reverently over the fabric, before looking in her mirror and examining her hair which hung loosely around her shoulders. With a determined nod, she gathered it together and began to braid it, using the scarf to hold it in place and decorate it, just so.

Some women used jeweled combs, feathers, or rosebuds to decorate their hair. Sybil had an ivory scarf with blue trim. And it was the most beautiful hair piece she had ever possessed.

With that done, she rummaged through her trunk, found a very simple dress (thank heaven she had taken her sister literally when she had told her to bring "plain clothes"), and quickly dressed, before crossing the room to poke her head out into the corridor, her ears listening carefully to the sound of servants. They would all be downstairs, having their supper, or so she believed. Unless she rang for anything, no maid would come in…but just to be sure, Sybil quickly took her pillows and arranged them just so beneath the sheets.

Satisfied that all the precautions had been made…she left the room and as quickly and quietly as possible, took the back stairs that would lead her to the garden terrace…and the world beyond.

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><p><em>BOOM! There's your answer to what was going to happen with Sybil and the whole Larry Grey fiasco. Are you pleased? I know some of you were worried that she was going to be spending her evening with him. MORE TO COME SOON! Hmmmmm...I wonder where she's going?<em>


	147. London Holiday (part three)

_As promised, here is the next chapter! Granted, I didn't get it out as early as I had hoped (obviously) because my muse decided to add more to it since I had split it up from the last one. This one also got away from me a bit, simply in the sense that it began as something light and fluffy, before becoming emotional, but I'm proud of it and love how it turned out and I hope you will like it too! That being said, if you haven't read Chapter 146 (which was posted yesterday) please do so, to get the "full effect" of these two chapters. And once again, I dedicate this to **mimijag**-ENJOY YOUR HOLIDAY IN LONDON, GIRL!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Forty-Seven<strong>

Whiskey. Right now, he wanted nothing but a good, strong whiskey to leave a trail of fire down his throat. Of course, he couldn't get drunk, even if he wanted to. His train back to Downton was leaving very early, half-past seven in the morning. He was expected to be back at the house before the dressing gong was rung, and while it had never been finalized, he assumed he would be the one expected to pick up Sybil and her sisters from the station, who were due back right before dinner.

Oh God help him, how was he going to make it until then? He had been spending the last few hours walking around London, trying to calm his mind, trying to assure himself that Sybil would be alright, that at the very least she wasn't going to be alone with whoever this bastard was (he didn't even know the git's name) but none of it helped. He felt absolutely helpless and wretched, partially because he couldn't be there to protect her from such cads, partially because of the façade the two of them were presenting to the world (that they were not engaged to one another), and partially because of the way the two of them had parted earlier.

In all honesty, that was the part that bothered him the most.

He had let his feelings of jealousy and personal inadequacy get the better of him, and instead of being the strength she needed, instead of reassuring her that everything was going to be alright, he had lashed out at her, he had let his anger get the better of him and he blamed her for keeping secrets, and then he had walked away without so much as a backwards glance, knowing that this was going to be the last time they would have a moment alone until who knows when, because tomorrow, they would be back at Downton and back to resuming their roles from before.

God, how he hated himself. And how he desperately needed a hard, bitter drink.

It was Saturday night, and the pub where he was staying was bit busier than it had been the previous evenings. Upon entering it, he walked straight to the bar with every intention of ordering the whiskey he desired, and seeking out the table where he usually sat and begin to let the liquor work its punishing magic. However, the man working at the bar was quick to point that his favorite table was already occupied. Tom turned his head, following the man's finger…

And froze at the sight that greeted him.

She was sitting so huddled and quiet, and yes, she did look a little nervous. But upon meeting his eyes, he saw that nervousness melt away to reveal a bashful smile that began to curl at the corners of her lips, as well as alight in her eyes and the glow of her cheek.

He blinked. He shook his head. He blinked again and stared in shock…at the sight of his fiancée, dressed in a simple brown dress with cotton lace at the collar, perhaps the plainest dress he had ever seen her wear—and her glorious brunette curls braided down her back, held together by the ivory scarf he had purchased for her. He had barely recognized her, but his heart knew before his eyes that yes…it was her.

"Sybil?"

She bit her lip and her bashful smile spread even further. "Surprise!" she murmured, blushing deeply.

Surprise? SURPRISE? The word "surprise" seemed far too tame to describe the shock at seeing her sitting there, in a pub, in the middle of Piccadilly—BY HERSELF!

He crossed the room in several quick strides, quickly taking the chair across from her, his eyes never leaving her face but the anxiety of the situation only kindling. "What are you doing here?" he hissed as he sat down.

She looked a little taken aback by his reaction. "I…I came to see you," she answered, her face flooding with color.

Tom closed his eyes and groaned, one of his hands rising to run through his hair. "Good God, Sybil…" he told himself to calm down, but his mind was reeling with all the possibilities of what _could_ have happened, in her effort to find _The Yorkshire Rose_ and himself. "How long have you been sitting here?" he demanded, opening his eyes and looking at her, trying to ignore how beautiful she looked in her simple dress and how right the shopkeeper's wife had been about the ivory of her scarf bringing out the glow of her cheek.

Her blush deepened. "Not very long," she murmured. "Certainly no more than…thirty minutes?"

"THIRTY MINUTES?" he gasped, his hand now rising to run across his face. Good God, she had been sitting here, waiting for him _that_ long? Suddenly different images began to dance across his mind. What if he hadn't come? What if he had gone upstairs, straight to his room? How long would she have been sitting there? He looked around the room suddenly, and taking in the other patrons that were there. _The Yorkshire Rose_ wasn't a seedy place, nothing like that, but…well, every pub had its ruffians. "Are you alright?" he asked her, his eyes still scanning the room. "Has…has anyone…?" his left hand was gripping the table, and it tightened at the thought of some drunkard making his way across the room to where she sat, not realizing that he was in the presence of a Lady, and frightening her by asking her crude questions.

However, he noticed out of the corner of his eye when he glanced back at her that there was a smile spreading.

"People have been pleasant," she informed him, her eyes dancing around the room. "I must confess…it's rather refreshing to be greeted like 'anybody else'," she grinned. He knew what she meant, and he let out a sigh of relief at hearing that she hadn't been accosted by anyone, but…the tension in his back and shoulders refused to relax, and his mind was still reeling with possibilities of what _could_ have happened…

And despite his better judgment, such thoughts made him angry at the possible danger she had put herself in.

"Sybil…what…what were you thinking?!" he hissed, his eyes blazing as they held hers. The amusement that had lit the beautiful blue-gray depths vanished at the harshness of his tone, and he instantly regretted it. But he couldn't help it, either; after spending the rest of the afternoon worrying about some bastard in a theatre box laying his filthy hands on her, now all he could imagine was some bastard on the street trying to take advantage of her sweet nature and kind heart, and he knew men out there who would do that—he had grown up with them, he had witnessed it, both in Ireland and here.

She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders in that stubborn way he had come to recognize and yes, even love. "I was thinking that I wanted to see you!" she hissed back. "That I didn't want to end our holiday in London with an argument near Oxford Street!"

Tom groaned and shook his head. "So…so you risk life and limb, sneaking out after dark—"

"Life and limb?" Sybil interrupted. "For heaven's sake, Tom, I simply took a cab to Piccadilly, and easily found the pub within a minute upon arriving!" she shook her head, and even rolled her eyes at him. "Honestly, I would expect such words from Papa, but not you."

He bit his tongue, remembering a similar argument they had had once upon a time about her taking Dragon and driving the governesses cart to Malton for Gwen's interview. He quickly realized then that Sybil was no amateur schemer, and when she set her mind to see something through, by hook or by crook, she would find a way.

Of course, that incident had ended with both her and Gwen falling into a mud puddle and dragging lame horse back to Downton. That was the problem with Sybil's schemes; they didn't always go according to plan.

"What happened?" he asked, trying to calm his nerves down. He was angry, he could not deny, but his anger was directed at unseen events that could have happened. He had to remind himself that those things hadn't happened, that she was perfectly fine, unharmed, that no one had made any lewd comments or threats to her, and that despite how she was looking at him right now…she genuinely seemed pleased to be there.

"…_I didn't want to end our holiday in London with an argument near Oxford Street!"_ Neither did he; nor did he want it to end with an argument inside a Piccadilly pub.

"Sybil…" he murmured, reaching forward, his hands on the table and turned up towards hers, hoping she would accept them and forgive him for his harsh tone. "Please…what happened with your original plans for the evening?"

She eyed his hands, but he could see her stubbornness and anger waning, just like his. A grateful sigh escaped his lungs as she did as he had hoped, and took his hands in hers. "They weren't _my_ plans," she more or less grumbled. "And…" her eyes remained focused on their clasped hands. "And I hated the thought of you worrying and wondering—"

"Oh, Sybil…" he groaned, shaking his head and squeezing her hands. "My insecurities are never worth the cost of you putting yourself in danger—"

"I wasn't putting myself in danger!" she groaned. "Nothing happened, Tom, truly! I slipped outside through the garden terrace, hailed a cab, told the driver to take me to Piccadilly and gave him the name of the pub! It was really quite simple—why are you laughing?" she demanded, a deep frown on her brow as she stared back at him.

He bit his lip, trying to contain the laughter that suddenly bubbled up in his chest, but it was impossible. "I…I'm sorry," he chuckled, trying once again to get a hold of himself. "Just…I'm just imagining you hailing a cab…"

Her face darkened suddenly, and lifted her chin and her nose in that haughty Crawley way, but he could see the humor of the situation reflected in her eyes, despite the fact that she was trying to maintain a frown. "I don't see how it's that funny," she muttered.

He couldn't help it, he burst out laughing then. The only thing that was possibly even funnier was the thought of either of her sisters, standing and waving their hands for a cab, or Old Lady Grantham herself, waving her cane in the air and summoning all the cabs in London to her feet. Actually, that image wasn't so hard to imagine.

"Are you quite finished?" she sighed, lifting a brow as she gazed back at him.

Tom nodded his head, enjoying this moment of laughter despite all the tension from the afternoon and evening. He actually felt…light-hearted again, like he had when they were walking along Portobello Road, or riding on the Underground. He looked down at their hands, grateful that despite his sudden burst of laughter, she hadn't tried to pull away from him, and tenderly squeezed them, running his thumbs along her knuckles. "I can't believe you're here…" he murmured, more to himself than to her, but she had heard him because she squeezed his hands in return.

"I didn't want to be anywhere else," she whispered, smiling and blushing when he lifted his eyes to meet hers.

He smiled back, but felt a tremendous wave of guilt wash over him. "I'm so sorry, love—"

"Why?" she asked, looking confused.

He sighed and held her gaze. "For my behavior earlier; for…for how I spoke to you when you told me about your aunt's plans for the evening, and the arrangements she had made…"

"Oh, Tom—"

"Please, please know that I _do_ trust you, Sybil, I do; and I know that you're strong and capable and extremely clever—"

"No, you were right to be upset," she sighed, never letting go of his hands. "I…I should have said something earlier, but…but I didn't want to ruin the day, yet by keeping something like that from you, I only made it worse—"

"That doesn't excuse my behavior," he groaned. "I behaved like an insecure, jealous child throwing a tantrum—"

"You behaved like a man concerned for his fiancée," Sybil interrupted, before adding with a little smile, "as well as jealous."

He chuckled and shook his head. "In all fairness, love…'jealous' doesn't begin to describe the emotion I was feeling when you told me about this…this…" he paused, clearly trying to keep his anger at bay whenever he thought about this faceless man from Sybil's past. "Well…I'm selfish enough to admit that I'm glad you're here and nowhere near him tonight."

She giggled. "So am I, actually!"

He smiled and tenderly squeezed her hands once again, but his expression became serious once more. "Are you really? I…I confess, I feel guilty that you're not out enjoying yourself with your sisters—"

"When Aunt Rosamond told me that the Greys would be joining us, any hope of enjoyment vanished," she sighed. "But to be honest, Tom…I would give up a thousand opportunities to go to the theatre if it meant I could spend an evening with you."

He felt his heart leap at her words and his own cheeks began to burn with a blush that only Sybil Crawley could bring out. "God, you truly are an amazing woman," he breathed, lifting her hands so he could kiss them.

"And hungry too, I must confess," she giggled, blushing as he kissed her knuckles.

He laughed. "Is that a subtle hint that you would like me to buy you dinner?"

"Fish and chips?" she asked with mischievous grin. Tom laughed again; why was he not surprised. However, what she said next surprised him. "And a pint of cider?"

"A pint of cider?" his eyes widened. "Have you had cider before?"

She grinned and gave him a wink. "There were a few occasions when I was in York that Susan and I had the opportunity to visit a tiny pub at the end of the street from our dormitory."

"And you're only telling me this story _now?"_ he laughed, shaking his head. "Alright, I'll order you your cider…and then I want details to your adventures in York."

Indeed, it turned out to be a very fine evening, much, much better than he had originally anticipated. He watched in fascination as Sybil took a good, long drink from her glass, moaning in appreciation as the cider ran down her throat. He couldn't deny it caused him to groan a little too, but for completely different reasons. They laughed and drank and shared stories, Sybil telling him a few things about her "adventures" in York with Susan, and even confessing to him about all the times she thought of him and wondered what he would think if he could see her drinking cider, or studying in the library, or doing "hard labor", the sort of work that no lady was ever "meant to do", but she did it and couldn't help but feel proud of the things she had accomplished. Listening to her now and loving that she spoke about these things without fear or shame caused his heart to swell and grow and fall even more in love with her than before.

When their food arrived, the conversation shifted to Sybil telling him how she had managed to slip out of her aunt's house, how she convinced everyone that she was feeling ill and could not attend either dinner or the theatre. She explained how upset her aunt was by this news, but also went on to say how her sisters spoke in her defense, even though she did feel a little guilty that she had "stretched" the truth. "Yes, it is true, I was feeling ill…but more at the idea of having to spend the evening in Larry's company," she confessed.

"Larry?" he practically choked on his own cider at the mention of the man's name. _"That's his name?_ Larry?" In all honesty, he thought the bastard would have a "proper" villain's name, not something so…well, not something like _"Larry"._

Sybil laughed and nodded her head. "Yes, I'm afraid so," she sighed.

"Well…thank God for that," he admitted. "I was worried it would be a name I liked."

She blushed then and he felt his own cheeks burn when she murmured, "No fear in that, Mr. Branson; our son will not be cursed with such a name if we have one."

A son. Tom swallowed and not for the first time that weekend, did he imagine a child in Sybil's arms—_their child._ Not for the first time since he realized he was in love with her, did he imagine her beautiful belly, round and swollen with the child their love had created. The truth was he didn't have a preference to a son or a daughter; he knew no matter how many they had, he would love them all so fiercely, just as he loved their mother.

The pub was growing louder and more crowded, but Sybil didn't seem to mind. In fact, she seemed to welcome the noise, grinning and looking around the room, laughing as she saw two men make wagers in an arm wrestling match for who would buy the first round. "Are the pubs in Dublin like this?" she asked.

He couldn't help but chuckle. "To a point," he answered. "I can't deny it was one of the reasons why I chose this place when I first came to England, but the pubs back home are a bit louder—and can sometimes be a bit rowdier," he confessed. Yes, Saturday night at some of those pubs he remembered going to with Martin were quite a bit rowdier than this place. It was as if the men were trying to let their inner demons have a bit of fun, before going to mass on Sunday.

"Will you take me to them?" she asked, raising her voice a little over the noise.

He could tell that she was intrigued; clearly, she did not find the idea unappealing or frightening. However, there were a few places he would probably avoid taking her to, just to be safe (especially considering her accent). "If you'd like," he said with a nod. She smiled at this and gobbled up another chip on her plate.

"So tell me, Mr. Branson," she grinned, and Tom actually gasped at the sudden feel of her foot, running along his boot. "Is this the sort of thing you would do?"

_Play footsie?_ He coughed and tried to suppress the groan in his throat as her foot slid along his leg…curving around his calf and daring to slide up to the back of his knee.

She giggled, clearly loving the effect she was having on him. "I mean, if we were in Ireland," she explained, a delightful blush coloring her cheek. "And if I were just an ordinary girl…would this…" she held her arms out to the pub, but he had a feeling she wasn't simply including it alone, but their entire holiday, "…be how you would court me?"

He understood now, and he couldn't help but smile and reach forward for her hand which was already moving across the table towards him.

"First of all, you're far from 'ordinary'," he murmured, loving how her lashes bashfully fluttered against her cheeks. "But if this were Ireland, well…after finally working the nerve up to speak to you," he began. "I would nervously approach you after church on Sunday, second guessing myself the whole time, thinking that you already have a beau because it's impossible for a beauty like yourself not to—"

Her foot kicked his, causing him to grin. "What? It's true! No doubt there would be a 'Larry' in Ireland who would also have his eye on you—but that thought alone would give me the courage to speak to you, before he could sweep you off your feet—"

"All the Larrys in the world wouldn't stand a chance next to you, Tom Branson," she assured him, squeezing his hand.

He laced their fingers before continuing. "I would approach you after church, and ask if you would care to go for a walk."

"A walk?"

"Aye," he nodded. "I know, doesn't sound as exciting as going to the British Museum, but—"

"Oh no, I didn't mean that," she was quick to explain. "No, I…I simply was curious as to where we would walk?"

He smiled. "Well…maybe down by the docks? Of course sometimes the place stinks of fish, so maybe that wouldn't be such a good idea," he sighed, causing her to giggle. "There are several parks I know, and if it were spring, the gardens are lovely…but…basically I would offer you my arm, and we would walk wherever our feet carried us, until it was time for me to escort you home."

"And then?" she asked, looking eager to hear more.

"Then, judging by how well that would have gone…I would ask if I could take you out for a walk the following Sunday."

"Oh! Another walk?"

He couldn't help but chuckle at this. "Aye, I'm afraid so; but maybe by then the docks wouldn't smell so bad," he winked at her, which caused her to blush and giggle back. "And after escorting you home, I would ask—"

"Another walk?"

"No, don't be silly," he shook his head. "I would ask if you would care to join my family for Sunday dinner."

"Oh!" she grinned at this. "Yes please!"

He laughed, loving her enthusiasm. "Mam would make a huge fuss; you'd be given the seat of honor at the table, which also means you'd be getting the biggest and best portions, and even after you feel stuffed and ready to burst, she would still pile more food onto your plate, grumbling under her breath about being 'too skinny'."

Now it was Sybil who was sputtering. "Oh heavens; truly?"

He couldn't help but laugh. "Poor Sean, my brother-in-law," he sighed. "When Kathleen finally brought him to the house for Sunday dinner after they began courting, Mam wouldn't stop feeding him, even when the buttons on his waistcoat looked ready to pop."

She giggled but was leaning forward, her chin resting in her other hand as the one that was holding his played with his fingers. "And then? After you escort me back in a wheelbarrow because I'll be too stuffed to walk?"

He laughed and leaned forward himself, his own foot now getting its revenge by gently running along her boot. "I would encourage you to walk a little further than usual, to try and 'ease your stomach' from Mam's cooking…perhaps returning to one of the parks I mentioned…" he watched her blush grow as his foot teased hers. "And then…once the stars have come out and are shining overhead, then I would finally bring you back…"

"And…?"

"And I would lean close…" he murmured, his voice lowering as he demonstrated by leaning towards her. She was leaning too, her eyes focused on his lips as he spoke. "And then I would lift your hand to my lips and kiss it, before asking if you would join me again next Sunday."

She blinked, and looked at him as he grinned back at her after giving her hand a quick kiss, before leaning back in his chair. "That…that's it?"

"Why whatever do you mean, love?"

She scowled at him. "You kiss my hand?"

He couldn't help but chuckle, low and deep. "I'm only doing what my mother instructed me to do; behave like a proper gentleman."

Her scowl grew darker, before she gave his leg a little kick. "Proper gentleman indeed," she huffed, folding her arms across her chest. "If your mother knew half the stories about your behavior, such as the way you kissed me at the Servant's Ball," she blushed, her hand ghosting over her neck and collar.

His smile faded slightly. He hadn't told her about his mother's letters…or about the most recent one he had written, after they had returned from the Swan Inn. No, Sybil wasn't the only one who had been keeping secrets lately.

"Sybil…" he sighed, leaning close again, but she noticed this time that his tone and expression were serious. "There's…there's something I haven't told you…"

"Oh dear," she swallowed and leaned across the table, sensing that whatever he had to say wasn't going to be positive. Still, despite their play from earlier, she reached for his hand and he gratefully took hers once again. "Go on," she urged.

He couldn't help but smile down at the sight of their clasped hands. He lifted his eyes to hers and was awed, once again, by both the love and the trust he saw in her face. This was something he should have told her a long time ago, and she had every right to be angry with him, but even so, he needed to tell her.

"I've told my mother…about us," he began.

Sybil stiffened and he saw her face pale as the weight of his simple words fell on her. Still, she squeezed his hand and gave a little nod of her head, before straightening her shoulders as if preparing for bad news. "And…?"

He sighed. "Well, she's not very happy with me right now—no, it's not like that!" he was quick to correct upon hearing the gasp that escaped her lips and the look of horror that filled her eyes. "No, no, love, she…she's upset _with me_ because I just…I dropped this news on her, I…" he groaned and closed his eyes. "After the War ended, I…I wrote to her and told her that I would be returning soon; but I asked her not to say anything to anyone, and I couldn't give her exactly when, just…just that sometime, soon, I would be coming back to Ireland."

Sybil looked confused. "After the War had ended?" she murmured.

"Aye," he answered, running a hand through his hair. "She was upset because I couldn't give her any specific details on when I would be returning, or why I was returning…and…and I told her that I wouldn't be coming back alone."

He bit the inside of his cheek and slowly lifted his eyes to hers, preparing himself for her outrage.

She was staring at him, looking completely dumbfounded by this revelation. "So…so you told your mother all this…before Christmas? Before…before—"

"Before you had given me your answer, yes," he sighed, looking into her eyes and trying to gauge her emotions on the matter.

She simply stared at him, her eyes wide and full of surprise, but thankfully she didn't look upset. Amused, really.

"Well…" she couldn't help but laugh. "I always thought you were frightfully full of yourself."

He was grateful for her laugh; she was giving him a stern look, but there was nothing harsh or angry about it. Perhaps she saw little point in being upset with him? After all, she had given him her answer and thank God it was yes!

"You're lucky I said 'yes'," she told him, looking rather haughty once again. He deserved that look and he squeezed her hand, running his thumb along her knuckles with nothing but the absolute reverence.

"I know I am," he sighed, lifting her hand then to his lips and kissing it. "Every night when I go to sleep, I fear that I'll wake up the next day only to learn that this has all been some cruel dream…"

Her hand turned in his so it could cup his cheek, and he sighed again, leaning into to her touch as he felt her sweet fingers stroke the skin there. She didn't say anything; she didn't have to. He looked into her eyes and saw nothing but love for him reflected in their beautiful depths. Indeed, he was the luckiest man on the face of the earth, Sybil's love for him was proof enough that there must be a God, because how else could it be explained that this amazing woman could love a man like him, other than divine providence?

"So…you said that your mother…was displeased?" she asked, biting her lip nervously and waiting for him to continue.

He kissed her hand again before taking it in his own and holding it tenderly. "She was displeased with me for not giving her specifics…" he repeated once again, although in his head he was bitterly laughing at himself for describing his mother's answer as "displeased". Irate would have been more appropriate.

"And…what did she say about me?"

Her voice sounded so soft, and he could see the fear and worry in her eyes. But despite that fear, she was trying to look brave, trying to look strong, which was what he needed, what they _both_ needed. And he needed to be that for her, too.

"She asked me if I had done something I shouldn't have," he quickly explained, his face growing red at the memory of his mother's words. Even though he had told her and reassured her that he hadn't done anything of the sort, his mother still demanded to know if that was why he was suddenly talking about leaving England and bringing home a wife.

Sybil sucked in a breath and looked rather startled herself, her own cheeks flooding with color at the thought. "Oh my," she whispered, swallowing the lump in her throat. It pained him to see that embarrassment, and it angered him that people would jump to such a conclusion because of who they both were: a working class Irishman and an English aristocrat. If they looked closer they would see that both he and Sybil, despite the difference of their backgrounds and upbringing, were equals to one another in every way. _Two halves of the same whole…_

"Edith said as much," she whispered, bringing him out of his thoughts.

"What?"

Her eyes had fallen to the table and she lifted them once again to meet his. "Edith warned me to be prepared for the assumptions people would make once it was learned that I was marrying you."

He stiffened at this, but what could he say? He knew in his heart that yes, this was the sad assumption people would make; hadn't he just been thinking that?

"I couldn't care less," Sybil muttered, drawing him back. She looked him in the eye then and squeezed his hands. "If people are unable to see how much I love you…and how much you love me," she explained with a blushing smile. "Then pity for them, because they must be truly blind."

A smile of relief spread across his face at her words. He couldn't deny he had always worried—still worried, to be honest—about how those reactions would affect his darling Sybil. Mrs. Hughes always referred to her as the "sweetest spirit" and he agreed with that whole-heartedly, which was why it upset him to think that people would judge and slander her for daring to follow her heart. But his darling Sybil was not weak; and while he knew that there would be moments of grief down the road for the struggles he knew that they would endure (from both sides of the divide, unfortunately), he knew that Sybil would face them head on, and she would not back down, no matter what.

He wanted to pull her to him. Suddenly holding her hands wasn't enough, he needed to feel her body against his, to hold her in his arms and kiss her mouth.

But he stopped himself from tugging on her hands to bring her to his lap when he realized that he still hadn't finished his confession to her. And he needed to do that; he owed her that.

"There's something else…" he murmured, hating himself for bringing that worried look back to her eyes. _Stop hedging and tell her!_ "When I first wrote to my mother about you…I…I wasn't completely honest."

She froze, and he could feel that in the touch of her hand. "What do you mean?" she whispered, swallowing the nervous lump in her throat.

_Damn it._ "I told her I had met the most extraordinary woman," he gripped her hands, praying she would forgive him and believe every word which he spoke, because it was true. "I told her that I was in love with this woman, that she—YOU—are the woman I want to marry. I said that you are the sweetest, bravest, cleverest and most beautiful woman to walk the face of this earth, and that you make my heart soar every time I think about you; every time I see you! That when I hear your name I can't stop smiling; when I hear your voice I my heart races a little faster. You fill me with such happiness, and…and I can't imagine sharing my life—LIVING my life with any other. And I told her that you believe in me, even when I doubt myself, that you've always believed in me, that you've always thought I my dreams were fine ambitions…and I told her that you are political as well, that you have a passionate heart for justice and fairness, that you became a nurse during the War because you couldn't sit idly by and do nothing, that you weren't afraid of hard work…"

There were tears in her eyes, and he hated himself because he knew he was the cause for them.

"You didn't tell her _who_ I was," she whispered, her voice so soft and yet he heard it despite the growing din of the pub.

Her hands went slack in his, but he gripped them, careful not to hurt her, but refusing to let go. "I told her you are the woman I love!" he emphasized. "The woman I want to marry!" She didn't pull at her hands, but she turned her head and it broke his heart even more. "Sybil…Sybil, please, look at me," he begged.

"Are you ashamed of me, Tom?"

He paled at the question. The heartbreak he had felt before was nothing compared to the heartbreak he felt now. "No," he stated very firmly. "I could never be ashamed of you—"

"Then _why_ didn't you tell her who I was? Why didn't you tell her that the woman you loved was an English aristocrat, the daughter of an earl, the daughter of your employer?"

"Because that's not how I see you!" he practically shouted, his own voice breaking with the emotion that was threatening to burst. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he apologized for raising his voice, which he noticed had caused her to jump slightly. "I'm sorry, love, please…please forgive me for that."

She swallowed and nodded her head, and thankfully gave his hands a squeeze again. But she still looked hurt and he hated himself for that.

"I cannot deny, a part of me was afraid," he confessed, looking down at the table himself, now. "Afraid that…that she would leap to that very conclusion to which you spoke earlier; about you being in some sort of 'trouble', and _that_ being the only reason to why I would want to marry you," he paused, his throat suddenly parched, but his cider was gone and he didn't dare release her hands for fear that she would flee from him. "I wanted her to know who you are…not your title, not your family, YOU—Sybil Crawley. I wanted her to know all of that first, so she wouldn't be blinded by the rest."

He suddenly realized that he had just given Sybil a rather unflattering image of his mother, lumping her together with those that would judge them harshly. It was unfair to his mam; after all, he still hadn't received word from her after his most recent letter, where he did tell the whole truth about Sybil being the youngest daughter to the Earl of Grantham. Yet he knew he was kidding himself if he thought that she wouldn't respond with an even more irate letter than the last.

"I've told her everything now," he murmured, his eyes looking directly at her face, praying that she would look back at him (her gaze remained on the table). "I wrote to her that day we returned from the Swan Inn; I told her your name, and who your father is. I also repeated everything I had said in my previous letter, about how much I love you, how happy you make me, how strong and intelligent and passionate you are—"

"What did she say?" Sybil whispered, her eyes still focused on the table.

Tom groaned and closed his eyes. "I haven't received a reply yet," he admitted.

He felt her hands tremble and he opened his eyes to see that she was shaking. Oh God, she was crying and it was his fault!

"What if she hates me?" she whispered, biting her lip and trying to hold her tears back.

"No, no, that's impossible," he was quick to answer. He couldn't stand it any longer; he rose from his chair and came around to her side, kneeling on the ground before her, not caring who saw them or if he was getting his best trousers dirty. "She will adore you!"

Sybil groaned and shook her head. "You can't guarantee that—"

"She may have some reservations at first, I admit that," he interrupted, his hands still clasping hers, only now they rested in her lap. "But when she sees how happy you make me…when she sees the way I look at you…when she sees your passion, your determination, your—when she sees YOU," he emphasized again. "She _will_ fall in love with you too. All of them will."

She still looked unsure…but he felt her fingers squeeze his and he breathed a small sigh of relief, before leaning forward and kissing their clasped hands.

"It's just…" she began and then paused to swallow the emotional lump that was lodged in her throat. "It's just…I don't want to cause any rifts between you and your family—"

"My darling…" he reached up and took her face in his, begging that she look at him, coaxing her to meet his eyes. "_You_ are my family," he whispered, his words full of such passion and emotion.

A tiny gasp escaped her lips at his words, and she looked back at him, tears still shining in her eyes, making the blue in them shimmer just so.

"I love my mother; I love my sisters and my brother and my cousins and everyone else connected to the Branson name, but there's only one person who I depend on; and she is the one I want to build my home and my future with," he ran his thumbs gently up to her eyes to wipe the residue of her tears away. "_You_ are my family, Sybil; you and any children that we will be blessed to have. That is the family I will work my hands raw for, that I will devote every waking minute—"

"To our happiness," she finished.

He couldn't deny his heart lifted at the way she said the word "our". Once again, images of her holding baby in her arms flashed before his eyes as memories stirred of how she had held Gwen's children, how she looked so natural smiling down at their laughing faces.

"Aye," he murmured in awe, his arms desperate to embrace her, his lips desperate to kiss her. His whole entire being simply desperate to marry her and start that life. "You are my family, Sybil," he repeated again. "And if you'll still have me…let me be yours?"

She looked at him, her eyes widening slightly. "If I'll still have…?" without warning her hands came up and gave his shoulders a rough shove, nearly causing him to fall backwards, but before that could happen, her fingers were gripping the lapels of his waistcoat and hauling him back towards her. "Tom Branson, don't ask such daft questions," she chastised, before leaning in and capturing his lips in a searing kiss that robbed him of his breath.

* * *

><p>The rest of their time at the pub was spent holding one another. Their meal finished, their glasses empty, Tom took a large chair near the pub's fireplace, and Sybil happily sat on his lap, her head leaning against his, his brow resting against her cheek, one arm secure around her waist, while the other curled over her legs and around the back of her knees. They gazed into the dancing orange flames of the fireplace, every so often turning and gazing at one another, Sybil lowering her lips to his and Tom happily returning her offered kiss.<p>

Things were better now, thank God. They vowed to not keep secrets from each other, to be honest and forthright, and Tom promised that the second he received word from his mother, he would tell her and they would face his mother's letter together. Which then led to a topic that had been on their minds now that their time in London was nearing an end.

What would they do, once they got back to Downton?

"I should confront Mary," Sybil murmured with a determined, yet tired sigh. "Just tell her everything I told Edith and pray that she accepts it. She doesn't have to like it or agree with my decision, but I will not let her keep us apart."

He ran his hand up and down her back in soothing circles, something Sybil appreciated because she snuggled closer and he felt the tension in her body relax.

"She has kept her word, like you said she would," he murmured in reply. He was still amazed that Lady Mary hadn't sent for the police to come and arrest him after everything she knew. When Sybil had told him that her sister wouldn't give them away, he didn't believe her. But despite the eldest Crawley sister's determination to "bring Sybil around" (a conversation that he had not revealed to Sybil and never would, God help him; despite his vow, some secrets needed to be kept and he refused to cause a rift between her and her sisters), perhaps Lady Mary was a vital ally to have in one's corner?

"She has," Sybil murmured, but by the tone in her voice he could tell she wasn't thrilled with the idea of confronting her eldest sister. "But…I don't know if that will stop her from hovering and watching us like hawks."

"She fears that I'm some sort of 'Lothario' bent on seducing you."

A small giggle escaped his fiancée's lips. "Well…aren't you, in some small way?" she teased.

His hand which had been running up and down her back moved to her rump and a gasp escaped her lips as he gave it a little swat for her cheek. "Tom Branson! Did you just—?"

"Aye," he said, turning his face to hers and grinning proudly. "Best get used to it, love; it won't be the last time."

She swatted his chest, but giggled as she felt his hand rest against her rump, gasping again as this time he gave it a squeeze. "So is this a window into married life?"

His eyes darkened and he couldn't help but growl at the blush that crept up her face. "Oh my darlin'," he groaned, his accent thick. "When we're married…this is simply the tip of the iceberg."

He was leaning in to claim her mouth, but her fingers stopped him, resting against his lips. He looked up at her in question, but there was a light of merriment in his eyes, and a wicked smile on his face as he playfully caught several fingers in his mouth.

"Stop that," she reprimanded, giving his chest another swat. "I will not have you distract me from a most important discussion."

He sighed and leaned his head away. "What we shall do when we go back?" She nodded. Suddenly, a thought dawned on him based on something she had said. "Lothario…" he murmured. "Isn't that from a book?"

Sybil's brow furrowed. "I think so…Don Quixote, I believe; I've never read it, but I remember Mama saying something once—"

"That's it."

She looked even more confused. "What?"

His smile began to grow with the idea. "Books; the library, the ledger in the library!"

She shook her head, still confused. "Tom, I don't understand—"

"That's how we'll talk; that's how we'll get messages to each other, to avoid being followed or watched!"

She was still frowning, but he could see that her mind was beginning to work out the meaning behind his words. "You mean…leave letters for each other…?"

He grinned and nodded his head. "The ledger in the library; I'll write my name down and the book I'm 'borrowing'; only I won't be taking the book out, I'll be leaving a letter folded up somewhere inside."

"But…but won't someone notice if the book is still on the shelf?"

"I don't think so, love; why would someone go looking for a book that they believe has been taken out?"

His smile grew even bigger as he saw the realization light up her eyes. "So…I would go into the library, check the ledger—"

"And whatever book is listed by my name will be the book _for you_ to find—"

"And in it I'll find your message!" she gasped, grinning back at him, her eyes shining. "Tom, that's brilliant!"

"And then I'll do the same; whatever book is listed by your name will be the one I'll look for, and that way, we can communicate without worrying about anyone else—"

She kissed him then, and he pulled her close, moaning against her mouth, delighting in the passion he could feel as her lips spoke her happiness in a way that words could not communicate.

"We must be careful though," she gasped, when the need to breathe became necessary.

He nodded. "Aye; countless pages of our names and growing list of books may be a bit suspicious."

She giggled and nodded in agreement. "Also, as brilliant an idea as it is, I still want to see you in person," she burrowed even closer to him, her hands holding his face, her fingers running over his cheeks and brow. "I can't imagine going through another period like I did all those days before coming here without touching you, without kissing you—"

Her words were cut off by him kissing her. "London has spoiled us," he breathed, resting his forehead against hers when the kiss had ended.

She giggled and nodded her head. "It has…" she looked deeply into his eyes and he swore his heart melted at the love he saw reflected there. "And I would repeat it all over again."


	148. Tom's letter: The Pain of Parting

_After all our adventures in London, it's time to return to Downton...and to see the love of these two through the eyes of secret love letters. This was a lot of fun to write, and I hope this doesn't sound "arrogant", but I must confess, I was melting at some of the emotion "Tom" was conveying to Sybil (and that feels weird since I wrote it! I feel that way plenty of times when I read other people's writing, but not from my own hand!) Anyway :oP I hope you enjoy this; more will follow as our lovely couple exchange love letters, and reveal things that happened in their parting moments from London, as well as things to come now that they are back at Downton._

_**I want to dedicate this chapter to my dear Sally, aka "dustedoffanoldie"** who is sadly feeling under the weather with a bad sinus infection (get well soon!). Also thanks to all the fans and followers of this story who gave me encouraging words to get this chapter written (because I was struggling with what to do!) As always, THANK YOU for reading, and please, if you are able, please leave a comment, because they are always, ALWAYS greatly appreciated :o)_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Forty-Eight<strong>

"_The pain of parting is nothing to the joy of meeting again."  
><em>—Charles Dickens, Nicholas Nickleby

My darling,

I pray you find this tonight; you have no idea how I wish I could give this to you in person, but we both know that if I had the chance to do that, I'm not sure—no, I _know_ for a fact, I would not be able to let go of your hand…rather like last night.

I started writing this letter on the train, actually. Every time I close my eyes, I am taken back to last night…the shock and surprise at seeing you in that pub, the way my heart lifted at seeing your smile and hearing your laugh…the incredible…the incredible need that I…that I can barely put into words, when I had the chance to touch you, be it your hand, your cheek…or the heaven I felt when I could hold you in my arms, you sitting on my lap as we did before we left. But I remember the joy of kissing you the most; God I miss you—it's barely been a day, and yet I yearn for the touch and taste of your lips against my own even more than I ever thought possible.

I began to miss you the second you slipped from my arms to return to your aunt's house. I'm not sure how long I stood there, under that secret grove of trees where we had parted the day before, but I do believe I heard Big Ben chime midnight before I finally awoke from my stupor. Not that I minded. I didn't feel the cold; the warmth of your body wrapped around mine lingered hours after we parted. But Lord, how tempting it was to call out to you—no, to run across that street and pull you back into my arms, to kiss you again, to—

I keep telling myself over and over that it will be soon. Soon I'll have an answer, soon we'll make our journey, soon we'll be able to begin our lives where we won't have to say goodbye at night, nor send each other messages like this one.

Soon, my love. Soon…

It has to be.

Still…that doesn't mean parting is easy, of course.

I returned with little fan fair. I received pleasant greetings from Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson, telling me it was good to have me back, or asking if I had a pleasant holiday…but nothing more. I think they all assumed I visited Edward and Gwen; I came prepared with a story to share, but no one asked for details, not even Anna.

Which leads me to the conclusion that she suspects I _didn't_ go to visit Gwen; but I don't think we have anything to fear. I never told you this, forgive me, but the day after we returned from…well, the day after _that night_, Anna came to see me. I was prepared for a fight, I must confess; prepared to be scolded in an attempt to shame me for what we tried to do—for what _I have done_ in "forgetting myself" (forgetting my "place"). But none of those things happened. No scolding, no shaming, no looks of disappointment or words of warning, simply…understanding. In fact, her exact words were: _"Truly, I don't think there are two people here more destined for the other than the both of you!"_

What do you say to that my darling? Is it destiny? Was it written in the stars? Were we always intended to meet like this? I confess, I never really gave much thought to the idea of "fate", but…now that I know you I can't imagine my life without you. Like…two puzzle pieces; the world—_my life_, just seems to make more sense, now that I know you exist in it.

…

…

What I'm trying to say is that I do believe we can trust Anna; that she is on our side like your sister.

…

Oh my darling, how I wish I could just…

…

Well, I'm sure you can understand.

I'm sorry I wasn't there to see you at the station. I wanted to be, please know that, but when I returned, Mr. Carson told me that arrangements had already been made, that I should simply rest and wait until Monday for my duties to resume.

Perhaps it was for the best? The only reason I say that is because God help me, I don't know if I would have been able to keep myself from sweeping you up the second I saw you descend that platform. Oh love…I can still feel you; I close my eyes and I can still feel your frame, your body, your beautiful warmth in my arms…and I can still feel yours around me. And I'm smiling now as I'm thinking about it, because I swear I can still feel your heartbeat against my chest. No, I know I wouldn't have been able to stop myself from reaching out to you. It was so difficult to even let you go last night in climbing out of that cab, let alone forcing myself to release you so you could return to the house. Do you have any idea the effort that took, my love? A feat of Hercules, to be sure!

I know you're back, safe and sound. I actually begged Daisy to let me know when you returned. It's rather strange, writing these words, telling you when I'm going to be leaving this message before I've done it, but knowing you will be reading them after I have. Daisy has just told me that Pratt has brought the car back; poor girl is flustered because dinner was delayed for your return. I hope I haven't gotten her into any trouble for pulling her away from Mrs. Patmore, but I needed to know, not only to calm my own nerves, but to also know when I can slip this message to you. It's risky, I know, but the truth is, I didn't want to wait, I wanted this to be here for when you got back, so even though I wasn't there to see you when you returned…you could still know and…and feel me, there.

Did I ever tell you that I like Charles Dickens? It's amazing, really; in all our talk about books over the years, I don't think I ever mentioned that to you. It's true, I don't read a great many novels, but I've always admired Dickens for his efforts in bringing attention to the horrible living conditions of the poor and the injustice that working class men and women face. While I can't say I'm fan of all his work (I truly don't understand what is so "great" about Great Expectations), there are many that I do enjoy and even a few that I would even say that I treasure…including this one: Nicholas Nickleby. Suppose what I like about it is how young Nicholas overcomes the assumptions others put on him, that he works hard and proves his uncle wrong, that he's not a failure or good-for-nothing…that he truly does _make something_ of himself.

You believe that.

Even when I doubted, and I confess, I _still_ have doubts about…about being more than what I am, you have always believed that I can make my dreams ambitions. You have never doubted me, love; and…and I don't know how to tell you how…how _strong_ that makes me feel.

_You_ are my strength. You always have been.

…

I should finish this letter. I should go and leave it now (and pray that Nicholas Nickleby hasn't been removed, or else that will make my statement above seem rather strange and out of place). Right about now, I'm guessing that you have been ushered upstairs to "refresh yourself" after your journey, before coming down for dinner. Oh my darling, how I wish I could linger to catch a glimpse of you. I know you'll look very fine, as you always do. I don't know if I have a favorite frock, because I love them all (alright, I confess I am partial to that one you surprised your family with back when I started here).

Look at me, even in writing you a letter I struggle with stopping! It's like parting from you all over again—does that sound strange? And yet, whenever I am able to see your face again, hear your laugh, feel the touch of your hand…the despair my heart feels at parting from you will melt and disappear completely. And knowing that sometime soon (I pray tonight), you will be holding this letter in your hands and reading my words…it's _almost_ like holding you again.

Almost. A letter will always be a poor substitute for you.

But when you hold this letter, imagine me with you, love. Imagine me holding you, because that is what I am imagining right now, what I imagined last night, and what I will be imagining tonight and until we are able to hold each other again. Until then, my darling…let these words remind you how much I love you, and how greatly I miss you.


	149. Sybil's letter: None But You

_Ok, I have to admit, I'm really loving writing these love letters between Tom and Sybil! I think what I love about it is the feeling of "freedom" that they are expressing; freedom to *finally* be honest and open with each other about how and what they feel for one another! I don't think it's OOC for Sybil to be writing what you find in this letter; yes, she's being rather bold in some of the statements she makes, but Sybil always marched to the beat of her own drummer, and I think after she agreed to runaway and possibly elope with Tom, suddenly those inhibitions she may have once felt, melted away. I think she enjoys this freedom to express her emotions, and Tom certainly is the sort to encourage that expression! So I make no apologies about Sybil's response! :oD_

_The question of course is how will Tom digest the information she provides for him? ;o) Hehehehe, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Forty-Nine<strong>

"_You pierce my soul. I am half agony; half hope...I have loved none but you."_  
>—Jane Austen, <span>Persuasion<span>

My dearest friend,

Do not be discouraged or alarmed by the way in which I address this letter. I don't know how familiar you are with the American presidents (or American history in general), but I once remember my grandpapa Levinson showing me a portrait of John Adams, the second president of the United States. There was another portrait next to Mr. Adams, one of a lovely dark-haired woman who had a smile, I confess, that mesmerized me. Grandpapa told me that she was Abigail Adams, John Adams' wife. He also told me about the great love the two of them shared; how for so many years they were separated, whether it was due to his participation in the first Continental Congress, when America was beginning its fight for independence, or when he briefly served as ambassador to Britain and France, after the Revolution. During this separation, the two of them wrote letters, always addressing the other as "my dearest friend".

That is how I shall address you, because that is what you are and have always been to me. My dearest friend, my best friend; you understood me in a way that I don't think anyone else could…perhaps even myself. You certainly made me realize I wasn't mad to have an interest beyond my "Downton bubble", or that I was mad for not only yearning to know what was happening in the world, but to be a part of it. Have I ever thanked you for that? For opening my eyes and pointing me in the right direction? For "indulging" my desire for more knowledge? Because I am, my dear friend…I am very, very grateful, in ways that I can't even begin to possibly describe. And if I must (not that I mind) I shall spend the rest of my life thanking you…

…

Interpret that as you will.

…

…

Gracious, now I can't stop blushing! But no doubt you are smirking as you read this. I wonder though, are you blushing good sir? Do I have the ability to do that? I think I do; if memory serves I seem to recall several instances during our holiday where you blushed. Perhaps now I can understand why you enjoy making me blush so; it is rather fun!

And you didn't tell me, my love, how poetic you are. I suppose it should come as no surprise, though; it didn't take me very long to realize how much of a romantic you are. Still…to speak so freely and express yourself in such a way…

…

Well, I must confess, it does leave me rather breathless! But I do love it; in fact I long to hear more words, hence why I am writing to you so quickly and praying that soon, very, very soon, you will return to the library and find my message. Because you were right; holding your letter last night and reading your words, imagining your strong fingers gripping your pen as you wrote…

Yes…yes, I closed my eyes and yes, I could feel you, those very fingers running across my cheek, along my jaw…and down my neck. Oh my dear friend…I felt you. I felt your arms as you promised, and it's taking all the willpower I have not to seek you out as we speak!

Although…I cannot help but wonder, if I did go to you, if I did suddenly appear on your threshold, wrapped in a simple robe and clothed in moonlight, would you be able to resist? Would you cruelly send me away, tell me in a stern voice to return to my room at once?

Or would you welcome me in? Would you take me into your arms and pull me against your chest, removing any trace of winter cold with the heat of your body? I'm imagining that now, actually…imagining you again, holding me…kissing me…are you imagining it to? You said you could still feel my heartbeat against you…can you—do you feel anything else?

…

…

Am I playing with fire? Silly question, I know that I am. And perhaps I am being cruel in writing such things. I do not mean to tease, but all those inhibitions I once felt and held are gone completely! Like that night we attempted to run away, when I threw my head back to the wind and shouted my love for you. I don't regret doing that, and if I appeared silly, I don't care! I love you…Lord, just…just having the freedom to finally say that, to express that! I love you…I do, my dearest friend, I love you…and I'm sorry it took me so long to admit what I have always felt and known but was too afraid to say. I love you…and I am waiting with baited breath for our future to begin.

I missed you too, the second we parted after the pub, after we climbed out of the cab, after you held me and kissed me before I reluctantly left the comfort of your arms to return to the house. I had no troubles returning. I easily slipped back inside (thank goodness the terrace door wasn't locked!) and quickly returned to my room before anyone saw me. In fact, the second I had climbed back into bed I heard the front door open and the rest of them return. I pretended to be asleep so as not to cause suspicion or be forced to answer questions, should anyone come upstairs. The door did open, but I don't know who peeked in; my act must have been convincing, for they quietly shut the door a few seconds later. I didn't hear or see anyone until the next morning, and no one seemed to have suspected my mysterious rendezvous to Piccadilly!

Tell me, does it please you to know that a certain person was "most put out" that I was not there at the theatre? I must confess, _I_ was rather pleased! Oh gracious, I had to hide my face behind my teacup when my aunt told me the news so as not to show my pleasure. She certainly was most put out, and told me over and over the entire time we traveled to church about how she had to keep making excuses on my behalf. Honestly, if she were hoping to make me feel guilty, she couldn't be more wrong. Guilt is the last thing I feel for pretending to be ill and slipping out to see my fiancée!

Thankfully, he and his family were not at church, you may rest assured. And thankfully, that was the end of the matter as well. After church we returned to the house for a small luncheon before returning to the station for our journey back to Downton. The train ride was long, and I will not deny it never felt so agonizing, because all I could think about was how desperate I was to get back for no other reason than to see you again! Yes, I did miss Mama and Papa and Granny and Mrs. Hughes and Anna and others…but you were the one whose face I so desperately wanted to see over any other. And I cannot deny how disappointed I was when it was Pratt who had come to retrieve us from the station. Perhaps…as you said, it was for the best; I don't know if I would have been able to control myself either; I feel so bold now, much more so than I ever was before. I think I would have run to your arms and thrown myself at you, not caring if we tumbled backwards on the ground. I would have laughed the entire time, before pressing my lips against yours and letting the rest the world melt away into a void of nothingness.

Oh my love, my dearest friend…

…

I wish…

…

I know why we must keep things secret just for a little longer. I understand the practicality of that, I do. I know we need to save what we can, and make ourselves ready when the announcement arrives, which I have faith will be very soon! But that being said…oh Lord, how were able to manage all this time? The patience you had, truly, I envy it! I know I was a voice for "practicality" (at least that's how I looked at it at the time), but…now, all I want to do is throw caution to the wind! Which is why it's so tempting to put my pen down and leave this room; to go and find you and…and shock you by crawling into your bed beside you.

How do people do it? How do they manage to live with this sort of passion? Were you surprised by my choice of novel? I couldn't think of another. And my mind went to the words which Capt. Wentworth conveyed to Anne, about how she pierced his soul, how he is half agony, half hope! That is how I feel for you, my friend; you pierce my soul, and truly, until the next blessed moment when we are together, I am half agony, half hope! Oh please, say we can meet again sometime soon. For as thankful as I am for my imagination and the words which you have written, indeed, to quote yourself, it is a poor substitute for the real thing.

I want to feel your arms again. I want to know what it's like, to fall asleep in them. Oh my love, promise me we will sleep like that all of our nights after we are married? I cannot bear the thought of being one of those couples where both husband and wife sleep in separate rooms. I know, that is much more likely to be something "posh people" do (or as I have heard my sister say in the past, "smart people") but I don't want to be posh or smart or anything like that. While it may not be in the marriage vows that are traditionally read, know that in my heart, there will be a vow to never know a night when you are not beside me and my arms are not wrapped around you and my body is not pressed firmly against yours.

Am I shocking you? I am giggling, actually. Blushing yes, but giggling too. Did you know that I possessed such thoughts, such an imagination? I confess, I was not aware I possessed such thoughts until I met you! I suppose some would say you have corrupted me…but I prefer to think that in all actuality, you have awakened me, like Sleeping Beauty. Now I am aware of such thoughts, such feelings, and I want continue thinking and feeling and experiencing them all! So when you next write to me, if I may be so bold, tell me how it will be when we are married, please? Tell me how we shall sleep at night, how you will hold me, how you imagine me holding you. Spare me no detail, no matter how shocking you may think it is. I want to hear it all, I want to imagine it and let that be the thing that gets me through this period of waiting; the excitement and anticipation of what it will be like when we have a home of our, a life of our own! Please, grant me this request?

…

The copy of Nicholas Nickleby which you hid your letter lies next to my bed. It has been years since I read it, but I look forward to reading it once again. Now I know who I will be envisioning whenever I read the hero's name. For you are the hero of my life's story, and I have every faith that you will achieve every dream and ambition you set your heart to. After all, some would say you've done the impossible in winning my heart!

But that's not so impossible, actually; my heart was lost to you long before that proposal. I was just too afraid to admit it.

The truth is, until I met you, I never had any interest in romance or marriage. I never sat in the garden and dreamed of a white knight or handsome prince come to sweep me up and carry me to his castle. I never even imagined my wedding day, or the gown I would wear. And I certainly never imagined the children I may one day have, because I never imagined the man that would be their father and my husband.

But that's all changed now.

None but you, my dearest friend; I have loved none but _you_.

Of course, I do not think I surprise you when I say that I want more from this life than what is "expected" of women. Yes, I want to continue working, but now I also want to have a family beside it! Why can't women have both? Why must a woman give up one for the other? I refuse to do that! I believe it can work, and I love that you support me in that.

…Oh gracious, you _do_ support me in that, don't you? I realize it's something we've never discussed, just something I always assumed! Oh my dearest friend, I want to be so much more than just a wife to you and mother to our children; I want to be your partner! I want to hold your hand and stand proudly by your side as we face decisions, the large and the small, the good and the bad, and make them together.

I want for us to be a marriage of equals, where one isn't greater than the other or has more power than the other. Perhaps _I_ sound terribly full of myself when I say, rather confidently, that I believe it's what _you_ want, too. After all, wouldn't you rather have a free-thinking person for a wife, rather than a trained parrot?

Oh gracious, now I'm laughing at the thought! It is an amusing image, wouldn't you agree?

I am beginning to run out of space on the paper, and I do not want this letter to be too bulky and raise suspicion if I cannot make it fit on the shelves. However, I saw to removing my intended book _before_ I sat down to write this—see what a clever wife you will have?

Yet with this remaining space, I will leave you with this parting image, as a gift to you—although I confess I feel most wicked for daring to write such words, but at the same time, I cannot contain myself; there is a freedom in being wicked it seems!

Before I read your letter, I removed it from the book…and then placed it on top my bed. I moved the blankets down, and then facing the bed, I began to undress. I imagined you sitting on the bed, watching me…watching as I undid the buttons, as I slipped the laces off. I have gotten rather good at undressing myself…however, I still need a little help, now and then…

Would you be willing to oblige?

I put on my nightdress…white cotton with lace at the collar, and settled down upon the bed. I read your letter, and closed my eyes…imagining your arms, your hands, your lips…your body touching mine. I hugged your letter to my breasts, placing it just over my heart, imagining your head resting there, urging you to feel and hear my heartbeat, wherever you were.

Did you, my love? Could you hear it? It was so loud; it seemed to drown everything else out!

My pillow is a poor substitute for your chest, but that is what I shall imagine it to be. I shall dream of you, dream of our future, dream about nights when we share a bed, where we are wrapped close and tight, and free to tell the other how much we love each other without any restriction. And express that love in whatever way we feel fit.

Until then, my dearest friend. Until then.


	150. Tom's letter: The Light of All Lights

_WOW! What a response from the last chapter! :oD I'm glad so many people liked Sybil's boldness in her letter ;o) and I'm also glad to hear how eager people were for Tom's response! Well, I was eager to hear it too! So here it is, a quick lil' update from our favorite chauffeur, "indulging" a certain young lady by answering her questions. The big question of course is...does he *really* spare her no detail? ;o)_

_I'm dedicating this chapter to **Angel Bells**, who was very kind in letting me know HOW DESPERATELY she needed Tom's response. I hope you are not disappointed my dear! THANK YOU ALL FOR READING!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Fifty<strong>

"_There are darknesses in life and there are lights, and you are one of the lights, the light of all lights."_  
>—Bram Stoker, <span>Dracula<span>

Good God almighty!

I…my darling, I…

…

…

You've rendered me quite speechless to be sure! Something my mam would say is an impossible task!

…

…

…

I can't…I mean, I…I keep pausing and looking back at your letter, and I…

…

Sweet Jesus, woman! God, the…the effect your words have on me! I mean…I mean do you have any idea?

…

…

Stupid question; I think you _do_. I think you know _exactly_ what you're doing, asking me those questions and telling me about your imaginings…your sweet, delicious imaginings that…that have my heart racing and my breathing coming in short, quick gasps! Dear God, love—remember I have a heart murmur! And…and your descriptions about "preparing yourself" before reading my letter? If Mr. Carson walks in now, and finds me lying on the ground, overcome by the erotic images to which you wrote…well, you'll have no one to blame but yourself, you little minx.

Truly…I…you have robbed me of all manner of speech. I'm having trouble concentrating, because I keep looking back at your letter, my eyes running over your words, and I find myself groaning. Yes, that's right, _groaning_. Groaning in agony because God help me, now all I want is for you to give into those sweet temptations which you spoke of, where you do come to my door, clothed in _nothing_ _but_ moonlight—and I think _you_ _knew_ the answer I would give even before you wrote it down. Sweet Jesus, darling, how could I turn such a beauty away? Yes, yes, I would bring you inside, I would gather you close, crush you against me, and despite all the promises I've made about…about waiting…

…

…

I'm only human. But I confess, I would find myself thinking, "consequences be damned!" if I were to roll over in the night and find that indeed, you had somehow managed to sneak into my bed.

…

And blushing, you little minx, are you pleased? I imagine you are; I imagine it is YOU who are smirking right now. Well go on, you've earned it. Because you are right…it is fun to make you blush.

Oh my darling, where do I even begin after such a letter? Truly, my hands are still trembling after reading your bold and delicious words. The very pen to which I am holding is shaking too! But you have no one to blame but yourself if my handwriting is illegible.

I suppose the best way for me to reply is to start at the beginning.

I actually do know a little bit about American history and politics; not as much as I would like to, but I certainly do admire the political writings of many of those men who would go on to claim the title as the "forefathers" of the country. There is beauty in Thomas Jefferson's _Declaration of Independence_; I sometimes wonder if Ireland will have such a document when she wins her freedom? But I am also an admirer of John Adams, although I confess I've read more about him back in Ireland than here; but he struck me as a good man and leader, one who wasn't afraid to sometimes take the unpopular path, such as keeping the United States out of the French Revolution. Looking back, I can see what a wise decision that was, however I can also understand the enormous pressure he must have faced when so many of his country people, including Jefferson who I know was a close friend of his, were urging him to send armies to aid in their cause. I can only hope that I have such strength like that. But as Mr. Adams had Mrs. Adams, I have you—and you, _my dearest friend_, give me such strength.

Indeed, to see you open your letter by addressing me in such a way, believe me, alarm was the furthest thing I felt. I smiled—am still smiling—seeing you calling me that. I am smiling and I am honored that you think of me in such a way, because I agree with you, you too are also my dearest friend. I love my cousin; Martin, God rest his soul, was a good man and someone I could always talk to, but…but even he, there were…there were limits, you know? I mean, even with him, there were certain things I couldn't talk about, not because I didn't think he would listen, but because…because I didn't think he would understand me.

Certainly not in the way you do, my darling.

In fact…when I think about it…I don't think I ever had a best friend. Not until I met you. Does that sound strange?

…

As to your wish to spend your lifetime thanking me (even though I don't believe that's necessary, love; you would have found your way, I know it—you're stronger than you know)—but I'm not so unselfish as to say that by no means will not welcome your…"thanks"…in whatever way you see fit.

…

…And yes, there are some ideas I have in mind, ways in which I have interpreted your words…but I think it is best that for the time being, I keep them to myself. Don't worry; I shall be sure to share them with you _after_ we are married.

…

Oh my love…

I am not the only one who is poetic or romantic, even if, by some miracle, you never dreamed about a future where you would be swept into the arms by some romantic hero like your Capt. Wentworth or Mr. Thornton. I sit here in awe at your revelation that…that truly, I…I of all people, of all the men you have met and danced with, all the posh, handsome devils that have had the good fortune to see you in your finery and dance with you in London…

_ Me._ Why? I don't mean to question it, trust me, I will not question it further; I count my blessings every day and night, especially those blessings that have, for some miraculous reason, brought you into my life, and even more miraculous, have brought you to think and feel for me as deeply as I think and feel for you. But…but truly, my darling, I know I joked about it earlier, but truly…you have no idea what your words do to me…how…how they make my heart swell and my body ache to be with you again.

And to hear you speak so plainly! No, no, by all means, my darling, be bold! Please…do not hold yourself back! I cannot deny that yes, it is a little surprising to hear you speak so, but I love it and I crave more of it, just as you crave for my reply. But promise me; promise me, please that you will always speak so with me. No shame, no nervousness, nothing like that; speak freely and boldly about anything, even if I do stutter and blush and stare back with my mouth hanging open. Always, my love, always…speak and tell me what's in your heart. Please…that is what I long for more than anything.

…

…

But yes, to answer your question, you are playing with fire, not that I think you mind in this case. I burn for you, my darling; I told you that my body, my heart, everything _aches_ for you. I have missed you so much since we parted. It feels so strange, being back here, knowing you are here too, knowing that there is always the possibility of the two of us passing one another (hoping for that opportunity!) when I enter the library to find your book. The ache I feel is even stronger now than before; I have memorized your shape and weight, how perfectly you fit against me. I love you too; I love you and it fills my heart with such happiness to see you write those words over and over, to tell me what I have dreamt for so long, and to tell me without any fear or inhibition.

I love you, my darling. And I promise to spend the rest of my life showing you, every day, how much I love you. And you can interpret _that_ as you will.

As for what happened after we parted, I am glad to hear that no one caught you, that you did make it back safely and without question, although I still can't believe how you managed to slip out in the first place, undetected! But never mind that, because I am grateful, so grateful, for that evening together. How else would we have come up with this grand scheme to exchange letters? But in all seriousness, I am glad that you were not caught, although I am sorry you had to put up with your aunt's fuss. However, it sounds like you handled it very well, my little minx, and I cannot deny that I smiled as I read your words about hiding your face behind a teacup as she attempted to make you feel guilty for your "illness". Are you sure I haven't "corrupted" you? And you know me so well, love; because you weren't the only one who was very pleased to hear that a certain person was "most put out", to use your aunt's words, by your absence from the theatre.

God, I wish I could have been there to see you at the station. To hell with what people think; I would gladly welcome you launching yourself and me and tackling me to the ground if it means a chance to taste your sweet lips again, and feel you against my body.

Oh my darling, yes…yes, I promise you, soon…soon we will meet, I think we must for the sake of our own sanity! And just a little longer, as you say; I sent another letter to a paper in Dublin, as well as to an uncle of mine who might know of some people to contact. But I will do whatever it takes, my love, that's a promise.

As to answering your question about how people live with such passion? I honestly don't know. If you ever learn the answer, please share it with me! As to your choice of novel, I smiled when I saw your name beside it…and I remember that letter to which Capt. Wentworth wrote to his beloved Anne. It perfectly describes how I feel too—half agony, half hope.

Oh my darling…God, how I wish I could kiss you. I would hold your lovely face in my hands, so careful, so tenderly…my fingers gently brushing away any brown wisps that have escaped your pins, and lean down to capture your lips, to feel them move against my own, to moan and lose myself in the beauty of your kiss, to drown in it. Are you sure you're not some faerie spirit who has bewitched me? Not that I mind; I am under your thrall and will gladly spend eternity there. You are light that pierces through any darkness; you are the light of lights.

Perhaps I should ask if you were shocked by _my_ choice of novel? (Oh, and like a certain brilliant woman who I will one day have the blessed fortune to call my clever wife, I too retrieved the book at the same time I went in search of your letter). I confess, I have not read Dracula; I was never one for horror stories. And yet when I came to the library, I scoured its shelves, trying to find something by an Irish author, and Stoker was the only one to whom I could come across. That shall certainly be my excuse if anyone asks me why I "borrowed" his novel. Yet one reason I chose it, despite the horror of its story, was simply…as strange as perhaps it sounds, simply because I wanted something that expressed "eternity". I hope my choice wasn't too disturbing! I have heard some women express vampirism as "romantic"…not that that was what I was trying to convey, but…well, I…

Lord almighty, I'm mucking this all up.

What I'm trying to say is…like a vampire, I _hunger_ for you…I _thirst_ for you, to feel your touch, taste your lips, to…to have that future where we are free to express our love for one another in whatever way we wish, without fear of anything or anyone trying to separate us (not that I will let them, nor do I believe would you!) Like a vampire, my life without you is endless night…but you are the light that breaks through the darkness and…and fills me with _life_.

There. I hope that made sense and, as I said before, wasn't too disturbing and was perhaps a little romantic?

But yes, love, yes…yes, I want to feel you in my arms again, and feel your sweet arms around me. I want those nights too, those nights of lying in bed with you, feeling your body pressed against my own, your hair on my shoulder, my chest, tickling my lips as I lean over and kiss it. Your scent, everywhere, all around me, hearing your even breathing as we sleep, hearing your voice murmur in the night as I lean into you, and kiss the back of your neck…your cheek, your shoulder, your ear…

I can promise you—_guarantee you_ even—that we will _not_ be one of those couples that sleep in separate rooms. Even if we one day have a house large enough for such an unnecessary luxury, I forbid it, and I don't think you'll mind. A man would be mad to even comprehend such a thought! Sleeping in another bed when he has the opportunity to share one with you? Beyond madness.

Oh love…

The questions you ask, the details you wish for me to give you! How…how far do I dare go? Believe me, I love your eagerness! And I even find myself wondering how much I can shock you? I do want to keep some mystery though, if you will permit me. I imagine you're pouting right now as you read that, but it's not to tease you—well, not to tease you too much, but I only say that because…I want to save some surprises for when we are married. It will make the anticipation all the more sweeter, I think.

At the same time…how can deny you? Your request not only makes me groan with longing, but also humbles me greatly. So…I shall try my best…

When we are married…I imagine the both of us coming home at the end of a long day; you from the hospital, me from whatever newspaper I'm lucky enough to find…we'll smile upon seeing each other, I will walk to you and greet you with a kiss…and I apologize now if my hands begin to wander; I don't think I will be able to help myself, love, just be warned now! But after we have our dinner and talk long into the night about our days…the time will come when we should go to bed.

Sometimes I imagine the two of us walking hand in hand to our room. We take our time undressing…you help me with my tie, and with the buttons at the back of your dress. You joke that you can manage, but then I remind you about a certain letter you once wrote to me, saying that now and then you still need "help", and I remind you that I have always been and remain to be very, _very_ happy to oblige.

We undress…and help each other into our nightclothes. I imagine you wearing a nightgown like you described; as for myself, I usually sleep in a pair of stripped pajamas, but I don't keep the top—I'm more comfortable in my undershirt, which is what I wear to sleep…if I wear clothes.

…Have I managed to return the favor and shock you, milady?

I imagine that there will be some nights…where we won't even bother with nightclothes. Do you ever imagine that? By all means, spare _me_ no detail with your response.

Other times, I imagine the two of us entering our bedroom separately. Perhaps one of us lingers in the kitchen to make tea or heat some milk? There may be nights where you have to work a late shift at the hospital, or I have to stay behind to finish an article before a deadline. On such nights, I confess I imagine you sitting up in bed, looking beautiful of course, with a book in your hands. Sometimes you glance up and smile at me, putting the book aside and holding your arms out to me in greeting. Other times you're so engrossed in whatever you're reading, I have to clear my throat to get your attention—which I confess, makes me laugh at the thought. And sometimes I imagine entering our room, and finding you sitting at table, brushing your hair…

I still remember how you let me help you with removing your pins, when we were at the Swan Inn. How I long to see you stroke your hair…yes, I imagine myself coming up behind you, laying my hands on your shoulders…perhaps taking the brush from your hand, and without saying anything…simply letting my fingers brush and stroke your hair. Will you let me? Perhaps on our wedding night? I promise to be gentle, love…in many, _many_ ways.

I also promise to be quiet, should I come home and find you asleep already. I'll tiptoe into the room, quietly change, and then slip beneath the covers next to you.

However, I apologize now if I do wake you, when I wrap my arms around you and pull your body against mine.

And then there are times when I imagine myself just…sweeping you up into my arms and carrying you quickly to the bedroom, kicking the door shut and loving the sound of your laughter filling the air.

I lay you down upon the bed, as gently as possible, however I cannot deny there are times when I close my eyes and see the both of us bouncing slightly, the mattress making a very distinct squeak when our combined weight lands on top.

What happens after that? That shall be one of the mysteries I will save. But…I do promise you this, because yes, it may not be a traditional marriage vow, but it will be one we both make and share with our eyes when our wedding comes. So help me God, my darling, you will never know a night when I am not holding you. With all due respect to your pillow, I very much would like my chest to pillow your head. It will always find a place to rest there, and my arms will be that extra blanket of warmth you need on cold winter nights, as yours will be mine.

I also vow that you will never know a night when I do not kiss you. Your brow, your head, your lips…the back of your neck or shoulder…no matter where and no matter what, I will always end the day with a kiss to my darling, my love, my dearest friend. Until we are old and gray and bent over and hobbling, this shall be how we end our days together; wrapped in each other's arms, and with a kiss.

This is I promise to you.

...

…

Oh my darling…I pray that was alright? Did I shock you just enough? I apologize if you are disappointed with any of it; but as I said, there are some things that I wish to keep secret, just for a little longer. But soon, my love…very, _very_ soon. At the very least, let's just say that by this time next year, I will not be sitting up at night, writing you a letter, but sitting next to you in bed…

…

…And by the grace of God, making love to you upon it.

…

There! _Now_ have I shocked you, my wicked minx? I do look forward to _your_ reply.

…

I don't want to stop writing, but like you, I am beginning to run out of space and I dare not add another page for fear of this book will never fit on the shelf. But I will end this letter reassuring you that _of course_ I support you in whatever future you wish to live…work, family, anything you desire! So long as I may be a part of it? That's all I ask. Let me bathe in your light, my darling; let me follow you throughout this world and the next.

I close my eyes and imagine your heartbeat. Like you, I took your letter and laid it upon my chest, imagining your head there. I can feel your heartbeat, I can hear it; can you feel and hear mine? It beats so quickly for you, my love. And like Capt. Wentworth, I can echo his words and assure you that I have loved none but you, as well. Never have I felt such passion, such emotion, such…it's almost impossible to describe. But surely you know the reason I stayed all these years; I would be returning to darkness if I left without my light.

I love you so much. My partner, my friend, my equal.

My light.


	151. Branson's Journal XVIII

_Sorry for the delay in updating! If you follow any of my other stories, you will see that I have been quite busy with writing over all, but I think there will be a few more updates this week for this story, so be on the lookout! _

_Taking a little break from the love letters; but don't worry, more will be coming ;o) Actually, I owe a huge thanks to **The Irish Chauffeur** (author of the AMAZING "Home Is Where the Heart Is") who inspired me after mentioning a conversation that Tom and Sybil could possibly have in a future chapter..._

_Let's see if you can spot that moment ;o) Thank you for reading, following, and favoriting! I've noticed that I've gained a few more story followers, which makes me so happy considering how I sometimes worry due to it's length, people would be intimidated and not want to even bother with reading it :oP So thank you and welcome! I hope you continue to enjoy the journey as we get closer and closer to that moment when they reveal EVERYTHING! But until then..._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Fifty-One<strong>

February 26, 1919

Sometimes I find myself sitting and reaching over and…pinching my arm. Just to be sure that this is all real. That I exist in the same world as Sybil Crawley.

I also pinch myself to make sure that I'm not dreaming, that truly, by some miracle…Sybil Crawley is not only aware of my existence, but that she returns my feelings.

She loves me.

God I…I don't know what I have done to deserve that—actually, that's a very easy answer, I _haven't_ done anything to deserve her love, I don't think any mortal man could! And yet she gives it to me freely; she finds some way to tell me, whether it's a letter hidden between the pages of a book, or a simple look that she glances my way while she's taking a stroll through the gardens with Lady Edith, and they just so happen to pass the garage.

But she truly is the most extraordinary woman; even after I showed her that letter, and I was ready to punch a hole in the wall, she was so…calm, so…so amazing! She had every right to be upset, I wouldn't have blamed her then and there to cast me off after reading that letter, but she didn't, thank God. She took my hand, squeezed it, refolded Mam's letter and told me that she loved me, that we were going to be married, and…"by hook or by crook" (her exact words) she would make the Branson family proud to have her as a member.

…

…

…Honestly, what have I done to deserve such an amazing woman?

Sweet heaven, ANY family would be proud to have her, and I know, now that I've had time to process my mother's letter, that Sybil will win them all over, just…

…

She always says that my faith in others astounds her, my confidence that eventually, her family and others will come around and accept us. But I must confess, today she was the confident one, today she made me believe it. I don't think I could have blamed her if she wanted to have nothing to do with me after that letter; I cannot deny that as I heard her read Mam's words, I kept expecting to see her drop the letter, before running out of the garage and telling me it was all over, that she couldn't marry me, that we were just fooling ourselves…and it would be York all over again. I remember feeling that fear clutch at my heart, and watching her with worried eyes, unable to breathe as I waited to see what she would do next.

And I hated seeing that pain on her face, and in her eyes, and in her voice as she finished. God, I…there's a part of me that wants to just…to just shout at my mother; shout at her and rage that she doesn't know anything! How dare she pass judgment on Sybil; she doesn't even know her! And how dare she think that this is just…just some "phase" that the two of us are going through; that our feelings are ruled by a combination of physical lust and a desire to rebel against the rules of English society, and nothing more! Does my mother think so little of me? And after everything I have told her about Sybil?

…

…

…

I had to get up and walk away then; I was tempted to do what I wanted to do earlier, which was punch several holes into the wall.

Oh Sybil…I…I honestly don't know what I would do without her. She is the rock to which I cling, she is the calm in the storm, she is…she's everything. Plain and simple…although there's nothing "plain" or "simple" about her, thank God!

I was gone for most of the day; her Ladyship has become very involved with Mrs. Crawley's charity work, and so I was driving the two of them back and forth from the village to Ripon and a few other places. When I got back, Mrs. Hughes told me a letter had arrived, and I cannot deny, I shocked to see the return address baring my mother's name. It's been so long since I wrote to her, well over a month, and I think…I think a part of me forgot, because of how much time had passed.

Forgot or wanted to forget.

I also cannot deny that I stared at that letter with dread. Why had it taken my mother so long to respond? The post isn't that slow, especially now that the War is over. I kept trying to create excuses, my brain wanting to believe it was because she was busy with the girls and their schooling, or helping Frank in his new job, or because the tensions back home were making things like sending post difficult, which sounds horrible, but I confess, I was hoping for any of those reasons to be the explanation as to why now, after an entire month, why now, my mother was finally getting around to reply to my letter.

…

I kept my word to Sybil; I had told her, promised her right there in that pub in Piccadilly that we would face my mother's response together. So I went to the library, chose my book, and had just placed my own note within its pages, when I heard voices coming from the corridor beyond. I had just exited the room, when both Sybil and his Lordship came around the corner.

Our eyes met briefly, and God in heaven, how her smile just…filled me with hope and light once more, despite the dread that was pooling in my stomach. I murmured my greetings to both her and his Lordship, before passing quickly, not to raise any suspicion, but I felt her eyes on me as I walked away, and I cannot deny…I did smile at that.

My book…and my message were "odd choices".

But I knew that as soon as she glanced at the ledger, she would realize that this was more than me simply leaving her a letter, telling her how much I missed the touch of her hand or taste of her lips (although I miss those too, very much).

Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. _That_ was my choice. Yes, it would grab her attention, but it would also grab his Lordship's attention and wonder why on earth I was reading _that_ of all things. Although, I shouldn't sound so harsh; Sybil has told me it's a favorite of hers, introduced to her by her mother (it's her Ladyship's favorite book), and while the novel is sometimes looked down upon as simply being a "children's book", it tells the story about four sisters, one of whom has the great desire to do more with her life than what is expected; to have adventures and do astonishing things, to be a writer and not let anyone, man or woman, tell her she cannot achieve what she desires.

Yes, I think I can understand very well why that book appeals to Sybil, and I really should read it, myself someday.

My note, asking her to come to the garage when she was able, that I had received word from home was slipped between pages where this quote struck me:

"_I've got the key to my castle in the air, but whether I can unlock the door remains to be seen."_

I didn't have to wait very long for her to find me. Lady Mary still keeps a watchful eye, however she is not as diligent as she was in the beginning, partially, I think, because she assumes that Sybil is having "a change of heart", based on the lack of opportunities we have in seeing and speaking to each other, _face to face_ (little does she or anyone else know about our own secret post office in the Downton library), but also I think she is trying to…occupy herself, with other tasks, as both Miss Swire and Mr. Matthew continue to make plans for their wedding.

…I sometimes wonder if Lady Mary would not be so harsh in her judgment of Sybil and me if things had gone differently between herself and Mr. Matthew?

…

…

Oh Sybil; it broke my heart to have to tell that she was wrong. She thought I had asked her to meet me in the garage because I had heard something from a newspaper. She was so eager, her face just…glowing in anticipation, her eyes lit with excitement! And bless her, she tried to hide her disappointment when told her no, still no news there, but without hesitation, she walked right up to me, looped her arms around my neck, saying, _"No bother; it will come soon,"_ before leaning upon her toes and kissing me, while smiling the whole time.

God, what a woman. I…I truly can't begin to describe how much I love her, there aren't enough words in either the English or Irish language; in any language! And then, after she read the letter, after my heart sank at the words my mother wrote, she paused, looked at me, and reached up to touch my cheek as she did that night not so long ago. It was a gesture of hope; it was a gesture of hope then, and remained a gesture of hope now.

"Not quite, but almost…"

Those were the words she spoke me that night, and even though she didn't repeat them, I remembered them so well. My mother hasn't accepted us the way I had hope d she would…_not quite._

And yet…and yet, as Sybil said, taking the letter in her hands and refolding it, _"she just doesn't know me yet. No woman is ever good enough for her son, so I'll just have to prove to her that I'm capable of being worthy."_

Not quite, but almost.

_Almost_.

Oh Sybil…my darling girl. Does she have any idea the strength she gives me? The hope? Just when I think all is lost, she shakes her head determinedly and says, "no," just like that. She will not be told otherwise. God, how I love her.

So she has made me promise not to write or say anything to my mam. Instead, Sybil will write to her, then seal her letter and give it to me to send. She also asked me to promise not to read it, as she wants this to be something between herself and Mam, which I respect, I do. I just hope Mam will read it when she realizes who it's from.

…

…

I keep finding myself going back to those words from Little Women. Amazing how such a sentence captured my attention from a book I've never read, and yet it did…

"_I've got the key to my castle in the air, but whether I can unlock the door remains to be seen."_

I think about those words; think about how close I am—how close _we_ are to finally being able to begin our lives as we have always wanted…together, as husband and wife. Or at the very least, as an engaged couple no longer hiding in the shadows. I just…I just need my key; my key to unlock the door to our castle in the air.

I'm trying to not become discouraged, but it's hard. I've sent so many letters to so many different papers, anything that I can find that remotely leans to Irish independence. At least once a week I travel to York, searching among advertisements at newspaper offices there; I have a better chance of learning about any newspapers that match my own views through sources in York than I do in Ripon. Edward, Gwen's husband, has been helpful as well. I wrote to Gwen weeks ago, after Sybil and I had returned from our failed attempt to elope, and she told me that both she and Edward would do what they could to find any information that would be helpful. I'm forever grateful to what they have done, for both Sybil and me.

…

…Sometimes, Sybil talks about how Gwen and Edward, along with her friend Susan, will be "our true family", here in England. She says this, putting on a smile, but I can see the pain in her eyes. Of course, she's quick to remember that Edith has accepted us and has helped us, but she still worries that the rest of her family will never…

…

…

I suppose this is where we give each other strength. She's determined to win the hearts of my family, and I keep telling her, assuring her, that in time, her family _will_ accept us. We both lack faith in our own families, which is sad…and yet together, we're able to give the other hope that everything will be alright.

…

This is my first entry in my new journal, the one she purchased for me when we were in London. I actually haven't had that many opportunities to write in it; been spending so much time writing love letters! Not that I mind, of course…

Sybil…some of the things she writes! God, the dreams I've been having, how my arms ache to hold her, how my body aches and longs to feel her against me…

And it's not just the things she writes. It's those stolen moments we are able to share as well. If I ever have the chance to drive her somewhere (sadly, it's rare that she travels without someone accompanying her) but the way our fingers linger as I help her in and out of the car. One day, her Ladyship told her to hurry up, that she was taking far too long to get into the car. And then earlier this week, both she and Lady Edi—I mean, Edith, needed me to drive them to Ripon. And because it was Edith who was accompanying her, I didn't feel it was necessary to wear my gloves to help Sybil in…and neither did she.

I can't help but laugh as I remember Edith groaning at the pair of us, our fingers purposefully and obviously lingering much longer than was necessary! But I am so grateful to her and her support through this, especially for Sybil's sake.

Upon arriving in Ripon, Edith said she was going to the stationers, while Sybil announced she needed to take some old books to the book binder for repairs…and that she would need an extra pair of hands to help her.

I still laugh as I remember how Edith rolled her eyes at us, before hissing a warning at Sybil to "not be so obvious".

…

…

It was probably for the best that Edith wasn't in the actual shop with us. I don't know how she would have reacted if she had witnessed the conversation Sybil and I had while the shopkeeper took the books to the back, leaving us all alone.

Oh Lord…I remember that conversation so clearly…the way…the way her fingers ran along a new leather cover of some random book lying on the shopkeeper's desk, asking me what I thought of this cover, encouraging me to run my own fingers over it…hers "randomly" bumping into mine…

And then her words…

_"Tell me…does leather do anything for you Tom?" _

…

…

God, I...I swear, if my other hand had not been gripping the desk, I don't think I would have been still been standing when the shopkeeper returned.

As if her words weren't enough to send my knees buckling, the way which she spoke! Her voice so…low and husky…

To say it had an _effect_ on me would be the biggest understatement of my life.

…And not to be outdone, I did growl an answer, while my fingers found hers and laced together over the leather binding.

_"Well Sybil, now you come to mention it ..."_

Of course, it was at that moment that the shopkeeper returned with an estimate as to how long it would take him to have the books repaired and how much it would cost. Still…the damage had been done, and when our fingers touched later as I once again helped her in the car, I swear, I felt fire and electricity shoot between our bodies, and…well, let's just say I had a very restless night.

…

Soon…

Soon I'll find a position. Soon we'll be on our way to Ireland, and soon we'll be married.

I just need to find my key and—

…

Actually, no. No, I already have my key; _Sybil_ is my key—she always has been. She is the key to my happiness, to the future I've always longed for, a future I never knew I could have until I met her.

"_I've got the key to my castle in the air, but whether I can unlock the door remains to be seen."_

…With Sybil, I know I can unlock any door. _She's the reason_ I said those words to her, asking her to "bet on me", because until she came into my life, I never thought my dreams could be more than dreams, that they could even be "ambitions" as she so eloquently put that time we drove back from Ripon.

So now I just need to keep knocking, keep looking for that door. But I know when I find it, I know that with Sybil's help, I'll not only be able to unlock it, but with her love and strength, I'll be able to walk through it with my head held high.


	152. To My Future Mother-In-Law

_Well are you surprised after the last chapter that we have Sybil's letter to her future mother-in-law? I will not deny, this was difficult to write, but that's a good thing I think, as I imagine it would have been very difficult for Sybil to write, trying to say all the right words, wanting to show respect to Tom's mother, maybe even wanting to impress her, but at the same time, being true to herself and showing that no matter what, she is not backing down when it comes to marrying the man she loves ;o) As always, thank you for reading!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Fifty-Two<strong>

Dear Mrs. Branson,

I'm sure this may seem a little strange, upon realizing who the author of this letter is. I confess, it seems a little strange to write the words, "Hello, my name is Sybil Crawley", considering that…well, that you have already heard about me. Yet we have not been properly introduced, or…as properly introduced as two people can be when exchanging letters, so please, allow me to introduce myself: my name is Sybil Patricia Crawley, third and youngest daughter of Robert and Cora Crawley of Downton, Yorkshire. I am twenty-two years old; I served as an auxiliary nurse during the War, trained at a school in York, and hope to continue nursing when I make my home in Ireland.

And yes…my parents are the Earl and Countess of Grantham. Perhaps that was what you were thinking when I began to make my introductions? Yet you see, I didn't want to state that right away, even though I will not insult your intelligence and ignore their titles, but…well, I wanted you to know their names, and not just their titles.

…I want you to know my name, and not simply see me as _Lady_ Sybil Crawley, a title which I will happily leave behind, when I leave Downton.

I want to apologize to you, for not introducing myself to you long ago. I should have, really. I should have gone to Tom and asked him for your address, to write you and tell you…how very much I love your son. I want to reassure you that this isn't a passing fancy, or a late adolescent phase, or an opportunity to rebel, even though I suppose I am considered the "rebellious one" in the Crawley family. No; the truth is, Mrs. Branson, I have been in love with Tom for a very long time. It began gradually, I will admit. We started as friends, very good friends—best friends, actually. I never had a best friend before Tom. We connected right away; he recognized a thirst for knowledge in me, asked me questions, let me ask him questions about all sorts of things, especially issues related to politics. The truth is, I was interested in such things long before I met him, but I had no one to talk to about those topics. But not only did Tom share such conversations with me, but he listened as well! Listened and didn't chastise me for wanting to learn more!

Perhaps…you think he should have? Well, even if that is true, I am glad he didn't. I am very glad. His friendship means the world to me, and even though our feelings have deepened since those first conversations, he will always and forever remain, my dearest friend.

I know that in the eyes of many, such friendships are frowned upon. I am not naïve; I am aware that what we have done—not only daring to be friends, but having the audacity to fall in love with each other and desiring to get married—is not something that will be accepted by a great many people. I sadly am aware that this may mean permanent exile from my home and family. I know there will be places from the world in which I was raised that will never have anything to do with me again after I take this final step, but the truth is I don't care. And I'm not saying that lightly, though I have no trouble in writing the words. If you knew me, Mrs. Branson, you would know that I was never really meant for that world; a world filled with cotillions and tea parties, invitations to the most exclusive London balls, and a large country estate surrounded by an army of servants. That may have been the world in which I was born and raised…but it is not the world in which I choose to remain.

And I have been feeling this way for a long time; long before I even met your son.

I've been searching for quite some time, what my…well, what my _purpose_ is. I thought my interest in politics would fill that void, that longing within me, but I soon realized that it was a door, leading me to a path where my purpose lay. When the War began, I couldn't stand to sit idly by; I wanted to do something, to be active in some way. But women of my position are given little opportunity in such cases. We put on smiles and try to keep morale high while knitting socks and sponsoring charity events. And while that's all well and good, I wanted more because I knew there was more to be done! I knew deep in my soul that I could do more! You see…I wanted _real work, _a_ real job!_ And so I spoke to my cousin, who once worked as a nurse, and it was she who helped me learn about the school in York, who helped me find a course and got me enrolled. And it was there, while learning and training that I realized I had found my purpose at last!

I love nursing. I love helping people. I love feeling like I am doing something with my life that is, I pray, making a positive difference in the life of another. I will not deny that it was difficult at first, doing things I had never done before; small tasks that no doubt seem silly to hear, such as boiling a kettle, or making a bed. Even dressing myself without the assistance of a maid! Yes, no doubt you are laughing at me, and that's alright, because truly, it was a pitiful and silly sight, seeing me attempt to do something as simple as undoing the laces of my own corset. But I managed; I accomplished those tasks and learned a few others. And while I'll admit, I still have a great deal to learn in doing something such as managing my own house without the aid of any servants, I am more than willing and ready to take on the task with both hands! I am not afraid, nor am I as helpless as some might think. I am stronger than I look, I am tougher than I seem! My experiences in nursing have taught me not to be afraid of challenges, but to face them head on! And I'm telling you all this because I want you to know that I am aware that Tom and I will face challenges. I'm aware that I will face many challenges, being an Englishwoman in Ireland; being a person with…with my background, living a completely different life. But I'm not afraid! And I am capable! And you will see that, if you will let me show you. You will see that I am indeed a very hard worker, and as odd as it may sound…I welcome the labor my new life will bring. Once again, I'm not saying this because I'm going through some strange phase; I genuinely mean it. I…I actually like waking up and facing a day of long and oftentimes grueling work, and coming home feeling exhausted! Does that sound strange? I'm sure it does, and once again, I do not mean to sound ungrateful for the luxuries I've been given, but…if you knew me, you would know that's not the life I want. And I know not everyone has that opportunity to seek out the sort of life they want; it's a unique blessing, and one I will not take for granted.

I write to tell you all this because…because _I am_ going to marry Tom.

That's something else you should know about me: I can be very stubborn, perhaps, you might think, to a fault. But I use that stubbornness to see things through, and to overcome challenges, whatever they may be. Of course, I know that it will take more than stubbornness to overcome the challenges Tom and I will face; it will take love. But thankfully, I have more of that than the other.

I told you before that Tom quickly became my dearest friend. And slowly, I began to realize with every conversation, with every look and smile, I was falling helplessly in love with him. I would never call myself a romantic, because the truth is I never gave a great deal of thought to romance or marriage until I met Tom. And when these feelings began to take hold of my heart, I was terrified! Not only because I had never felt anything like this before, but also because once I realized what it was that I was feeling…I was sure that it would only lead to heartbreak, and I didn't want to put either of us through that. So I tried to push him away; I tried to discourage him from feeling anything for me, and yet…I couldn't stop myself. No matter how hard I tried, my heart refused to cooperate.

I love him. I love him so much.

He works as our family chauffeur. I am the daughter of the man who pays him. We both come from very different backgrounds and upbringings…

…And yet he is more my equal than anybody else!

It's true; and I pray that you will believe me when you see us. I pray that you will see us, despite your misgivings about me and about the feelings we have. I pray that when we come to Ireland, as we will do and hopefully, very soon, that you will greet us and…and…and welcome us home.

…

…

Forgive me, I know that's rather forward of me to ask, especially since we haven't yet met face to face, but…but I know how much Tom loves you; all of you. I know how much he misses all of you, too. And I know that he worries that…that because of his feelings for me, he will not be welcomed back. I pray that one day, Mrs. Branson, I will earn your respect, and…God willing, even your love. But no matter what you think and feel about me, I pray more than anything that you will not turn your back on Tom as he fears, that you will embrace him and welcome him home when we arrive.

I know he is your eldest; I know that the both of you have made sacrifices for your family's wellbeing. I know that I must seem intrusive, not having met you and yet "threatening" to take your son away, by telling you I will marry him. And if that is how it seems, then I am sorry, truly. But I want to build a life with him, a future with him, a home with him, there…in Ireland! And despite what you may think or feel about me, I promise, as God is my witness, I _will_ make you proud! Tom once promised to devote every waking minute to my happiness; I have also made that promise. And I promise you, your son will not suffer at my ignorant hands. He will not starve because there is no cook, and he will not live in a filthy house because there is no maid. While my skills are still…mediocre at best, I can cook, and I can clean, and I do know some sewing and mending! And I am learning more! The cook here gave me some lessons before I went to York, and I have been asking her and our kitchen maid to help me learn more. And I continue to take lessons in other domestic duties as well, because I want to provide the both of us…and any children that we may have, a proper home.

This isn't a game to me. This isn't a game to either of us.

I love your son. Utterly and completely. And _I will_ devote every waking minute to his happiness as well.

I do hope…very much…that we will meet. As soon as Tom receives word about a position, we will make our announcement to my family, and then depart for Ireland.

I am hopeful that you will write back to us. I am also hopeful that my desire to write to you did not offend. It was my idea completely; I asked Tom to let me. Also, he has not seen this letter. As soon as I am finished writing it, I will seal it and give it to him to send to you. I'll even ask him to be so kind as to take me to the post office in the village to see it off. I don't know if that gives you any feelings of assurance, but, well, I just thought you should know that this is a message between you and me, and you and me alone.

I'll end my letter with a simple thank you. Thank you, for raising a wonderful son, because it's true; he's the best man I know. He's more of a gentleman than most gentlemen, and he's honorable and fair and…and he makes me so happy and I know you would be so proud if you could see him. The things he has done for others here, the hope he has given, not just to me, but to his fellow members of staff, to…to anyone who is fortunate enough to know him, really. Oh Mrs. Branson, you would be so proud; I know you are proud, and you have every right to be. Despite what you might think about the two of us now, you truly have raised such a wonderful, wonderful son. And I will forever be in your debt.

Thank you again, for Tom, and for reading this. I hope very much, that we can be friends. I would love that, actually.

In deep affection,

—Sybil


	153. Sybil's Letter: No Net Ensnares Me

_Sorry about the delay! But I feel so inspired that I hope to have another chapter churned out within a day or two at most! We're back to the exchange of love letters, but the end (in the sense of this *waiting* period between our couple) is in sight! But first, a little "throw back" to a previous chapter (hopefully you'll see what I mean) ;o) THANK YOU FOR READING! And thank you for sticking with this story! I am always happy to read reviews, but I'm also very happy to learn that there are people who are new to this story and who follow it! So welcome new story followers and THANK YOU for reading! :oD_

_Ok, now onto the new chapter...and the return of a very bold Lady Sybil ;o) _

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Fifty-Three<strong>

""_I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will."_  
>—Charlotte Bronte, <span>Jane Eyre<span>

MY DEAREST FRRRIND

…

MY DEAREST FRIEND

SURPRISE

HERE I AM

BET YOU WERE NOT EXXPCTING

…

EXPECTING THIS

THIS IS VERY DIFFIV

…

DIFFICULT TO DO

HOW DID YOU LEARN

GWEN DID NOT TEACH YOU

DID SHE

HOW DID SHE LEARN

HOW DO YOU PUNCUATE

…

…

PUNCTUATE

HOW DO YOU FIX MISTAKES

IT MUST BE VERY FRUSTRATING

IF YOU MAKE ONE YOU HAVE TO START OVER

MY WORDS LOOK AWUFL

…

AWFUL

…

THIS IS NOT WORKING

I WAS GOING TO TYPE YOUR LETTER AND SURPRISE YOU

BUT IT IS TAKING ME FAR TOO LONG

I AM SORRY FOR WASTING YOUR PAPER

…

…

Good heavens, Tom! How on earth do you manage? Truly how did you learn? Did Gwen teach you? Who taught her? She took all those courses on typing through the mail! And I look at the clock here on your wall and see that those pitiful and hopeless sentences took me more than thirty minutes to type! Gracious. Oh, and what do you do when you make a mistake? Truly, do you just…rip the paper out and start all over? And what about punctuation? How on earth do you type things like question marks and exclamation points? Oh dear, I would make a very poor secretary, or journalist for that matter. Suppose I should leave all the writing to you and Gwen, at least all the writing that requires the use of a typewriter. Yes, I think pen and ink are more to my liking. At least they seem to agree with me more, can't you tell?

At least I didn't waste any more paper! Although I am disappointed, I cannot deny; I was looking forward to hearing your reply and seeing how much I surprised you. Of course, perhaps the surprise that has truly shocked you is the revelation that I have snuck into your cottage!

Now do not scold me Tom. The truth is I took the key from Mrs. Hughes. Scandalous, I know! Theft and breaking an entry? Truly I am most wicked; perhaps I should be locked up? Will you be a kind warden and give your prisoner time off for good behavior?

Oh Tom, I shock myself sometimes! But I cannot stop giggling (and blushing if you really must know). Listen to me; I speak so brazenly! But I have a feeling you do not mind. No…I _know_ you do not mind! The way you moan against my mouth when I sneak up on you in the garage to steal a kiss before Mary or anyone catches us, gives away your thoughts on the matter.

Well, you'll be happy to know that I _did not_ try to go through your things, although it was tempting. But no, I respected your privacy and after my adventure with the typewriter, took the pages (as you can see) that I began, and swiftly returned to my room before anyone else could notice.

…Although…

Well, I must be honest and say that I did do _one thing_ before leaving…

…Tell me Tom; is your bed _always_ so warm?

It's much softer than I expected…but thank heaven nowhere near as soft as that vile bed at my Aunt Rosamond's. A bed that I am convinced tries to eat its occupants up if it could! But your bed…it was rather comfortable. I had a nice lay on top of it…stretched my body out, turned my face into your pillow. I even took the pins out of my hair, and let the strands spread your pillow. I could still see the lovely indentation of your head…and it fit mine so perfectly…

Indeed, it's a very nice bed. But as I told you, it is very warm. Perhaps…too warm? Which sounds mad, no doubt, considering that these March mornings are considerably cold, but…I soon found myself quite overcome by the heat, and…well…there truly was only one thing to do in such a situation.

But do not worry! I made sure I retrieved all of my clothes before leaving. Although now that I think about it…I _may_ have left a stocking somewhere. Would you be so kind as to retrieve it for me? Don't worry about putting in the wash (we don't want to give poor one of the housemaid's a fright now, do we?) But yes, I do believe I left the stocking…perhaps in your bedclothes? Because while I was so overcome by the heat in that moment, the second I had rid myself of my dress and slip, I suddenly felt quite chilled! And had no alternative but to burrow under your blankets for warmth.

Your blankets do have a lovely fragrance. I remember that scent very well, the scent of your aftershave. Yes, I would not mind falling asleep every night with that fragrance covering my sheets…

…

…

I think I have thoroughly scandalized the both of us now.

I did try to remake your bed as best as I could, but…well, I wanted to leave you some sign of my presence…

I pray you'll have a very pleasant sleep in it. Perhaps someday you will share with me your dreams?

…

Alright, I truly, _truly_ have scandalized the both of us now! However, it was deserved, I'll have you know! For your wretched "distraction" when I was in the kitchens the other day, trying very earnestly to pay attention to both Mrs. Patmore and Daisy as they attempted to give me more lessons. If I burn our dinner or mistake salt for sugar, it will be your own fault, Tom Branson! And don't sit there and put on a pout, trying to pretend that you're innocent. You knew what you were doing yesterday, the way your eyes kept following me, the way you insisted on watching me while I busily tried to work. Sitting there at the table, "innocently" reading your newspaper—yet how strange that your eyes were focused more on my movements than on the paper itself! And whenever I caught your gaze, the…the…the sheer audacity of not lowering your eyes! No, you insisted on watching! AND SMIRKING! Yes, yes, I remember the smirk VERY well! And you know that I saw it, and yet you make no apologies for it…especially when I nearly split milk all over myself. I can see now that when we are married I shall have to quite literally PUSH you out of the kitchen if I hope to get any work done! Because no doubt you'll just sit there…staring…and…and smirking.

…

…

Infernal man.

…

Thankfully I had another lesson today, earlier this morning before I "invaded" your cottage, and because you were already away, somewhere in York with Mary, Granny, and Mama, I'll have you know that I got a great deal accomplished. I successfully cooked a chicken! With Mrs. Patmore's help, of course, but I did it! I cooked a chicken, and made gravy, and even baked bread! And at luncheon, I watched Papa like a hawk as he bit into it…and he didn't make a face or complain about it being too dry or salty or undercooked, or anything! So you see? We shall not starve after all!

…

I did miss you, though.

I do miss you. Despite all my talk, I hope you know that. I hope you are aware how much I long for the day when we will not have to keep doing this; hiding letters in books and sneaking around the garage. I keep sharp eyes on the post; there have been several occasions when I go down to the Servant's Hall, waiting to see if Carson has brought it in, scanning anything that may have your name on it, hoping that something has come, some announcement. Oh Tom, I know you are keeping a close watch as well; and something WILL come, of course! I know it will, and soon too! I'm just very eager…but then I know that we both are.

Oh Tom…I'm so bored! I miss my work at the hospital; I miss feeling…feeling useful! I don't feel useful, I feel…well, Edith said it best once; I feel like a "spare part", stuck on a shelf, waiting…

Last night, after dinner, we were all sitting in the drawing room, Papa asking Matthew all sorts of questions about the impending wedding between himself and Lavinia; Mama, Cousin Isobel, and Granny exchanging stories about their own weddings and the plans, Mary making mention every so often about her plans for her own, which will take place sometime in July (although an exact date has yet to be declared). Edith was smiling and trying to engage in the conversation as well, but I just sat there feeling so…bored.

It's not that I'm not excited for my sister, or for Matthew (although you know my frustrations about all that), but…talk about weddings will not happen every evening. And the conversation soon shifted to "have you heard the latest gossip about Lady Marlborough?" or "have you seen what the ladies in Paris are wearing now?" or "now that the War is over, do you think there will be a cricket match this summer?" and other such nonsense. Because THAT is exactly what it is, Tom! NONSENSE! Gossip and fashion and cricket…are these the things that really drive people? Is this all there is? No! Of course not! And I know that! My eyes have been open, I have worked, I have talked, I have helped people! And just because one war is over, doesn't mean there aren't wars happening elsewhere! What about the refugees that Cousin Isobel is helping? What about the women and children who have lost husbands and fathers and are now on the brink of destitution? What about the wounded soldiers trying to rehabilitate back into society, but struggle with finding work? What about what's happening Ireland? There are injustices everywhere, and yet all they can think to talk about is utter nonsense! IT'S INFURIATING!

Truly, Tom…I love you, I want to marry you because I love you, but I cannot deny, that when I said I was ready to travel and you're my ticket, I also meant that you are my ticket to FREEDOM from this place! Freedom from this life! I was not meant for it, I see that so clearly now. If this is the world in which my sisters wish to live in, then so be it, I wish them every sort of happiness.

But it's not the life for me. I want a life where I work, where I feel I am being useful to others, where I am continually making some sort of difference, no matter how big or small.

I want a life _with you_. Because I know, deep in my heart, I will not be happy with any other.

No, I know that; _you_ are the best guarantee to my happiness. And I pray I will be the same for you.

…

…

Gracious, how this letter has changed! It began most mischievously, sneaking into your cottage, trying my hand at your typewriter; then it took a turn for…well, it took a rather scandalous turn, one that still has me blushing at my boldness. And now…now I find myself weeping, but please do not worry, they are not tears of sadness, well not completely. I cannot deny that I am sad, but only sad at the fact that…that I don't know if my family will ever completely comprehend _why_ I made the choices I made. I fear that I could stand there and explain and explain and explain until I'm blue in the face…and yet I don't think they will understand.

And that does sadden me. But it does not deter me from my choices. I want you, and I want the life that I know I can only have with you. And nothing, not my family, not the whole of England will stop me! I am going to marry you, and we are going to leave Downton, I am most determined.

…

…But I will miss them, still. So I weep for them; I weep for their ignorance. And I weep for…for the struggle I know they will have in understanding me. But I also weep with happiness. Because I am happy! I'm lucky, really! And blessed! So blessed…because I found you.

My dearest friend, my partner, my equal…

…And soon, very soon…my husband.

Not many people are that lucky. The more I observe the relationships around me, the more I realize how true that is. Maybe…maybe my sister and Matthew will come to love the people they intend to marry. But…but they won't be equals with their choices, not the way you and I are. They won't be friends, not the way you and I are. To love someone…really, truly love someone, is a great risk. And you knew that; you risked—have risked, so much in loving me. And for as long as I live, I will continually try to show you my thanks in not giving up on me, when you had every right to leave for the heartbreak I know that I caused. But you stayed; you never gave up. And you gave me such courage, such strength. You have given me faith, my love. You have given me hope.

…

I know I've talked with you about Jane Eyre before. I do love it; it is one of my favorites, although it's not an easy love story. This may sound odd, but…in some ways, you remind me of Jane. Simply in the sense of your persistence; your belief that good will, in its own way, be rewarded. Jane does what is right and good, and even though things look bleak for a period of time, she and the man she loves are rewarded—with each other. But there are risks to be taken, there are sacrifices that are made for "a future that's worth having". Yes, I remember all your words very well; they are written on my heart.

Your love has given me courage to take those risks, risks I may have been too afraid to take without your strength and faith, not only in me but in the world. Because of you, I can be like Jane myself, and stand and declare that _"I am no caged bird; no net ensnares me!" _

I always dreamed that I could have the life, the future…where I could truly be free and independent to make my own choices, to live as I wish, to…to do what I want! To break away from the cage that Society puts upon women, especially women of my own class! But now I have the courage to realize that my desire for such a life doesn't have to be a dream; it _can be_ real! And it will be. Indeed, it will be.

...

You truly are the best man I know…and I am so honored and grateful and happy, that I am the woman who can call you mine.

…

…

I will stop, although it is tempting to continue to write pages and pages to you! But I will stop, for I fear I may ruin all the ink I used with my tears! But I smile and blush as I think about how you will find this, and the secrets it contains. Yes, I cannot stop giggling now as I think about _that_.

Oh my love, my dearest friend, write to me soon—I long to read your response, as well as feel your arms around me again. I pray that we will have a moment this week where I can escape to the garage, where we can hold each other and once again, fuel one another with strength for the journey ahead. I know we will, and I cannot wait for that journey to begin.

All of my love, my dearest friend.


	154. Tom's Letter: Great and Sudden Change

_YAY! I promised a quick update and here it is! TOM'S RESPONSE! And ooohhh boy, does he respond ;o)_

_AND A RETURN OF "TYPEWRITER TOM!" But you will see that he's come so far since we last saw him using that confounded machine (which is good, since he's sending articles to various papers with hoping to find a job!) Hehehehehe, yes, Tom does get his "revenge" on Sybil, in a manner of speaking, and you shall soon see what I mean! I want to dedicate this chapter to **Angel Bells**, who DEMANDED a response from him ASAP. I hope this satisfies ;o) THANK YOU FOR READING! I hope you enjoy and as always, please share with me your thoughts if you are able!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Fifty-Four<strong>

"_Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change."_  
>—Mary Shelley, <span>Frankenstein<span>

MY DARLING,

OR PERHAPS IT IS MORE APPROPRIATE TO CALL YOU MY LITTLE THIEF! ALTHOUGH TO BE FAIR, YOU DID NOT STEAL ANYTHING…I CAN NOT EVEN BLAME YOU FOR STEALING MY HEART, BECAUSE I GAVE THAT TO YOU QUITE WILLINGLY.

HOWEVER YOU DID STEAL THAT KEY FROM MRS. HUGHES, SO PERHAPS THE TITLE IS FITTING?

BUT THE MOST FITTING TITLE OF ALL IS…MINX!

OH MY DARLING…SPEECH FAILS ME TO TELL YOU WHAT I THOUGHT, WHAT I WANTED TO DO, AND WHAT I DID, AFTER FINDING YOUR LETTER.

…OR AFTER FINDING THE STATE OF MY BED, RUMPLED SHEETS AND ALL.

LITTLE MINX. YOU'LL BE HAPPY TO KNOW THAT I DID FIND YOUR STOCKING—HOWEVER I AM OF GOOD MIND NOT TO RETURN IT TO YOU, EVER.

OR AT LEAST NOT UNTIL AFTER OUR WEDDING DAY.

YES…PERHAPS I SHOULD BRING WITH ME TO THE CEREMONY? INSTEAD OF A RING TO PUT ON YOUR FINGER, I SHOCK EVERYONE PRESENT BY TYING YOUR STOCKING AROUND YOUR WRIST?

I CONFESS, I LIKE THAT IDEA VERY MUCH.

GOD SYBIL, THE THINGS YOU DO TO ME! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA…?

SOMETIMES I THINK YOU DO AND OTHER TIMES I THINK YOU DON'T. SOMETIMES I THINK YOU ARE FULLY AWARE THE EFFECT YOUR WORDS AND YOUR PRESENCE HAVE ON ME. JUST READING THOSE SIMPLE SENTENCES, KNOWING NOW WHAT WENT ON HERE, WHAT YOU DID, SEEING THE GENTLE OUTLINE OF YOUR BODY ON THE MATTRESS, SMELLING YOUR FRAGRANCE ON MY PILLOW…

YOU ARE INTOXICATING.

I DIDN'T KNOW QUITE WHAT TO DO; A PART OF ME DIDN'T DARE LIE DOWN, BECAUSE I DIDN'T WANT TO TAMPER AND SPOIL THE SWEET REMAINS IN WHICH YOU LEFT MY BED. BUT THE OTHER PART OF ME, THE PART THAT WON OUT, COULDN'T WAIT TO LIE DOWN, TO LAY MY OWN BODY IN YOUR OUTLINE, TO IMAGINE THE PRESS OF IT, THE FEEL YOUR SKIN, TO LOSE MYSELF IN THE EROTIC REALITY THAT ONLY A FEW BLESSED HOURS AGO, YOU WERE LYING BENEATH MY SHEETS, ENCASED IN MY BLANKETS, YOUR HEAVENLY SCENT ENGULFING MY SENSES.

…

…

BUT IT'S NOT ENOUGH, MY LOVE. I NEED MORE. I NEED YOU.

YOU MAKE ME ACHE. I CRAVE YOU.

I WILL TELL YOU THIS MUCH, MY DEVILISH MINX. YOU WERE NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO DIVESTED THEMSELVES OF THEIR CLOTHES. AND I DID CLOSE MY EYES, ALLOWING THE SWEETEST AND MOST EROTIC IMAGES PLAY ACROSS MY MIND OF YOU, LYING HERE, NAKED AND BEAUTIFUL…AND ME FINDING YOU. YOU HOLD YOUR HAND OUT TO ME, BECKONING ME TO YOU, AND LIKE A MOTH TO A FLAME, I COME TO YOU WILLINGLY, COVER YOUR BODY WITH MY OWN, AND MAKE LOVE TO YOU OVER AND OVER AGAIN, UNTIL ALL OUR STRENGTH IS GONE.

…

…

I SUPPOSE THE QUESTION NOW BECOMES…HAVE _I _SCANDALIZED YOU?

OH MY LOVE…MY ENGLISH DARLING…

THAT IS WHAT I MEAN BY SOMETIMES WONDERING IF YOU ARE AWARE THE POWER YOU HAVE OVER ME. I LOVE YOUR BOLDNESS, I LOVE THAT YOU FEEL CONFIDENT ENOUGH TO SHARE SUCH BEAUTIFUL, INTIMATE THOUGHTS WITH ME. BUT I ALSO LOVE THAT IT STILL MAKES YOU BLUSH, WHICH DOES MAKE ME SMILE. JUST LIKE I TOLD YOU, THAT DAY YOU CAME TO THE GARAGE TELLING ME HOW YOU WISHED YOU KNEW HOW AN ENGINE WORKED…I AM MORE THAN HAPPY TO TEACH YOU. AND I CANNOT WAIT TO TEACH, AS WELL AS LEARN, ALL THE PLEASURES THAT MARRIED LIFE WILL BRING THE BOTH OF US. YES, THOSE ARE LESSONS I AM _VERY_ MUCH LOOKING FORWARD TO…AND I EXPECT THEM TO BE LONG, GRUELING HOURS OF STUDY, SO YOU SHOULD PREPARE YOURSELF, MY LOVE.

…

I'LL ALSO BE QUITE HAPPY TO TEACH YOU HOW TO USE A TYPEWRITER!

OH SYBIL, I CANNOT DENY, I DID LAUGH AFTER READING YOUR ATTEMPTS. BUT I AM NOT MAKING FUN, AND PLEASE DO NOT LET THAT DISCOURAGE YOU; GOOD LORD, YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN ME WHEN I FIRST STARTED. IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO LEARN WHERE CERTAIN KEYS WERE LOCATED, AS WELL AS LEARN HOW TO PUNCTUATE CERTAIN WORDS. YOU'RE ACTUALLY QUITE GOOD! AND YOU MASTERED A GREAT DEAL MORE THAN I WAS ABLE TO IN THIRTY MINUTES! AND I'M FAR FROM PREFECT

…

PERFECT.

SEE? I STILL MAKE MISTAKES. PERHAPS SOMEDAY A TYPEWRITER WILL BE INVENTED WHERE A MISTAKE CAN SIMPLY BE ERASED WITH THE CLICK OF A KEY.

BUT YOU DID SURPRISE ME! AND DESPITE THE INITIAL SHOCK AT REALIZING THAT YOU HAD SNUCK INTO MY COTTAGE (MY LITTLE THIEF), I DID SMILE AS I READ THE FIRST PAGE OF YOUR LETTER, RECALLING ALL THE DIFFICULTY I HAD WHEN I FIRST TRIED TO LEARN. BUT YOU ARE A NATURAL, MY DARLING. THERE MAY BE A JOURNALIST IN YOU, YET!

…

YES, I SMILED, I LAUGHED, AND INDEED, I GROANED AFTER READING YOUR LETTER. YOU DID LEAVE ME IN QUITE A STATE. INTERPRET THAT AS YOU WILL, MY LOVE.

BUT YOU KNOW I CAN'T HELP BUT GRIN AS I READ ABOUT THE "FLUSTERED" STATE IN WHICH I LEFT YOU, WHILE YOU WERE BUSILY WORKING IN THE KITCHENS. DO YOU WISH FOR ME TO APOLOGIZE? I DON'T KNOW IF I CAN; I COULDN'T HELP MYSELF, LOVE, YOU WERE JUST SO ADORABLE, BUSTLING ABOUT LIKE THE ASPIRING CHEF THAT YOU ARE. BUT I WAS NOT SMIRKING; I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW I WAS MERELY SMILING, BECAUSE I WAS IMAGINING YOU IN OUR HOME, BUSTLING ABOUT OUR OWN KITCHEN…

…

…

ALRIGHT, PERHAPS THERE WAS A SLIGHT SMIRK. BUT ONCE AGAIN, I COULDN'T HELP MYSELF. JUST…SEEING YOU FLUSTERED LIKE THAT…YOUR HAIR COMING UNDONE, AND WATCHING YOUR BODY MOVE…ESPECIALLY AS YOU BENT OVER TO RETRIEVE SOMETHING FROM THE OVEN…

…

DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT I IMAGINED THEN?

…NO, I DON'T THINK I'LL TELL YOU. I THINK I WILL WAIT AND SIMPLY _SHOW_ YOU, WHEN WE HAVE OUR OWN KITCHEN.

…

WELL, I AM GLAD TO KNOW THAT MY DISAPPEARANCE YESTERDAY ALLOWED FOR YOU TO ACCOMPLISH YOUR LESSO IN PEACE. AND CONGRATULATIONS LOVE! I MEAN THAT, TRULY. I KNOW IT HAS NOT BEEN EASY, THESE COOKING LESSONS, BUT I HAVE SEEN HOW HARD YOU HAVE WORKED OVER THESE PAST WEEKS, AND I KNOW WHY, OF COURSE. BUT I NEVER DOUBTED YOU. AND I'LL EVEN SHARE A SECRET WITH YOU, IF YOU WILL ALLOW.

I WOULD VERY MUCH LIKE TO HELP YOU, WHEN IT COMES TO MAKING OUR MEALS. THAT IS OF, COURSE, IF WE ARE ABLE TO NOT BECOME TOO DISTRACTED WITH EACH OTHER. WHICH MAY PROVE TO BE A DIFFICULT TASK, ESPECIALLY WHEN I RECALL YOU FROSTING THAT CAKE YOU MADE, SEVERAL DAYS AGO.

…

OH LOVE, I MISSED YOU TOO. I MISS YOU EVERY DAY. EVEN ON DAYS WHERE I AM BLESSED TO SEE YOU, I MISS YOU, BECAUSE I HATE TO PART FROM YOU. I LONG FOR THOSE DAYS AS WELL, LOVE, THOSE DAYS WHERE WE WILL NOT HAVE TO RELY ON THESE LETTERS; WHERE YOU AND I CAN RETREAT TO OUR HOME, TOGETHER. I MISS FEELING YOU IN MY ARMS, I MISS HOLDING YOU, KISSING YOU—GOD, HOW I MISS KISSING YOU. I PRAY THAT THERE WILL BE AN OPPORTUNITY VERY SOON WHERE I CAN FEEL YOU AGAIN; YOUR BODY, YOUR ARMS, YOUR LIPS…

YES. SOON, MY DARLING, VERY SOON. IT HAS TO BE. AND THANK YOU FOR YOUR FAITH; YOU TALK ABOUT HOW I GIVE YOU STRENGTH, BUT I WONDER IF YOU ARE AWARE THE STRENGTH, FAITH, AND HOPE YOU GIVE TO ME? BECAUSE ON MOMENTS LIKE THIS, MOMENTS WHERE I BECOME SO FRUSTRATED AND START TO DOUBT THAT I'LL EVER FIND ANYTHING…YOU REMIND ME THAT YOU BELIEVE—THAT YOU HAVE ALWAYS BELIEVED IN ME. AND JUST LIKE THAT…MY FAITH IS RENEWED.

SO YES, LOVE, YES; SOON WE SHALL HAVE OUR ANSWER. SOON WE SHALL LEAVE, AND I'LL TAKE YOU AWAY FROM THIS BOREDOM. ALTHOUGH WE WILL FACE NEW CHALLENGES OF COURSE. BUT I KNOW YOU ARE STRONG AND COURAGEOUS; MY ENGLISH DARLING IS FEARLESS, AND TOGETHER WE WILL FACE THOSE CHALLENGES HEAD ON. WE WILL FACE THEM, AND WE WILL CONQUER THEM.

AS PARTNERS. AS WE WERE ALWAYS MEANT TO BE.

…

OH SYBIL…I WOULD KISS AWAY EVERY TEAR. I WISH I COULD MAKE THIS EASIER. I WISH I COULD GUARANTEE THAT THEY WOULD UNDERSTAND; THAT I COULD MAKE THEM UNDERSTAND FOR YOU. BUT…I DO BELIEVE, WITH TIME…_THAT THEY WILL._ CHANGE TAKES TIME; PEOPLE OFTEN FIGHT AGAINST IT, BECAUSE TO EMBRACE CHANGE MEANS TO FACE THINGS THAT ARE UNKNOWN. PERHAPS THAT IS WHAT MARY SHELLEY MEANT WHEN SHE WROTE THOSE WORDS? THE WORDS STRUCK ME, WHEN I WAS LOOKING FOR THE NEXT BOOK TO HIDE MY LETTER. INDEED…THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF OUR LOVE AND THE LIFE WE BOTH HOPE TO LIVE WILL BRING A GREAT AND SUDDEN CHANGE, ONE WHERE PEOPLE IN _BOTH_ OUR FAMILIES WILL STRUGGLE WITH UNDERSTANDING.

AT FIRST.

BUT…WE WILL NOT GIVE UP IN OUR TRYING TO HELP THEM UNDERSTAND. AND HOPEFULLY…OUR EXAMPLE WILL BE ENOUGH TO DO THAT.

HAVE FAITH, LOVE. AND REMAIN STRONG, AS I KNOW YOU ARE.

AS FOR YOUR TALK ABOUT JANE EYRE, I WILL HAVE TO READ IT! I NEVER CARED FOR NOVELS UNTIL I MET YOU; SEE LOVE? YOU CAN HELP CHANGE MINDS FOR THE BETTER! THERE ARE SO MANY BOOKS THAT YOU TELL ME ABOUT, BOOKS WITH STRONG LEADING HEROINES WRITTEN BY STRONG WOMEN, THAT I REALLY MUST TAKE SOME TIME TO READ THEM.

I MEAN, HOW CAN I NOT ADMIRE A WOMAN WHO MAKES SUCH A DECLARATION THAT NO CAGE OR NET ENSNARES HER? ACTUALLY, IT REMINDS ME OF SOMETHING YOU SAID WHEN WE WERE VISITING THE LONDON ZOO; ABOUT HOW IT WAS DIFFERENT FOR YOU NOW, NO LONGER A CHILD, SEEING THE ANIMALS THERE. YOU SAID IT SEEMED WRONG THAT SOMETHING SO STRONG AND BEAUTIFUL BE LOCKED AWAY. AND…I CONFESS, I THOUGHT OF YOU—MY STRONG, BEAUTIFUL HEROINE, AND HOW I WANTED TO SEE YOU FREE; FREE TO PURSUE THE LIFE YOU WANTED…AND BEING SO GRATEFUL AND HUMBLED THAT YOU WISH TO LET ME BE A PART OF IT. OH LOVE, TRULY, I AM HONORED. HONORED THAT YOU THINK SO HIGHLY OF ME LIKE THAT; I DON'T DESERVE IT, BUT I SHALL STRIVE TO BE WORTHY OF IT FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. AND MY PROMISE ALWAYS REMAINS—I _WILL_ DEDICATE EVERY WAKING MINUTE TO YOUR HAPPINESS.

…

YOU SAY THAT I AM THE BEST MAN YOU KNOW. I WOULDN'T BE THAT MAN IF WERE NOT FOR YOU, MY DARLING. YOU MAKE ME WANT TO BE THAT MAN. A MAN WORTHY OF SUCH A WOMAN; THE MOST EXTRAORDINARY WOMAN THE WORLD HAS EVER KNOWN.

…

…

I HOPE THIS REACHES YOU SOON. I WROTE IT AS SOON AS I COULD, AFTER I RETURNED FROM THE ERRAND LADY MARY SENT ME TO FULFILL.

APPARENTLY THERE WAS A PACKAGE FOR HER FROM THAT DRESSMAKER'S IN RIPON. I THOUGHT I WOULD ONLY BE RETRIEVING ONE PACKAGE…BUT THE SHOPKEEPER SAID THERE WERE THREE.

THREE PACKAGES; ONE FOR LADY MARY…AND TWO FOR LADY SYBIL.

…SPECIAL ORDERS, APPARENTLY. SPECIAL ORDERS PLACED BY LADY SYBIL…FROM THAT ONE PARTICULAR SHOP WHICH WE PASSED IN LONDON.

YOU REMEMBER THAT SHOP, DON'T YOU LOVE? I KNOW I REMEMBER IT. I REMEMBER STARING AT THE WINDOW, MY MOUTH HANGING OPEN, WHILE YOU TOLD ME YOU WANTED TO GO INSIDE AND GET SOMETHING FOR _OUR_…WEDDING NIGHT.

…

ANYWAY, I THOUGHT YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT I HAVE DECIDED TO HOLD YOUR PACKAGES HOSTAGE. THIS SHALL BE MY REVENGE FOR BREAKING INTO MY COTTAGE AND DRIVING ME MAD WITH LUSTFUL THOUGHTS OF YOU, POSSIBLY NAKED, AND WRITHING BENEATH MY SHEETS. YES, ALONG WITH YOUR STOCKING, I MAY HOLD ONTO THIS PACKAGES UNTIL THE TIME COMES FOR OUR WEDDING NIGHT.

…AND IT IS SO TEMPTING TO SEE WHAT IT IS THAT YOU HAVE HIDDEN WITHIN THEM.

…

BUT I SHALL BE STRONG, ALTHOUGH GOD HELP ME, I WILL NEED IT. BUT I SHALL FORCE MYSELF TO WAIT, BECAUSE SEEING THE ITEMS INSIDE, AND NOT ON YOUR BEAUTIFUL FIGURE, WILL NOT DO THEM JUSTICE.

…

CAN YOU IMAGINE WHAT I SHALL BE DREAMING ABOUT TONIGHT?

…

HOWEVER, I MIGHT BE PERSUADED INTO GIVING YOU BACK YOUR PACKAGES…AS WELL AS YOUR STOCKING…IF YOU PAY THE PRICE.

AND WHAT SHALL THAT PRICE BE? I SUPPOSE YOU'LL NEED TO FIND THE TIME TO POP AROUND THE GARAGE TO FIND OUT.

…

IF I HEAR AN INDIGNANT SCREECH COMING FROM THE HOUSE, I'LL KNOW THAT YOU'VE FOUND MY LETTER AT LAST.

AND SO WITH THAT, I SHALL STOP TYPING, AND RETURN MY BOOK TO THE LIBRARY FOR YOU TO DISCOVER AND READ.

UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN, MY DARLING…

I LOVE YOU.


	155. Righting Wrongs

_LONG CHAPTER, but oh I think it's worth it if I may be so bold. I actually am very proud of this chapter, it certainly has become one of my favorites (which is funny since I had so much writer's block in the beginning!) Anyway, first I need to send shout-outs to **history lady 24** who inspired me somewhat after a chapter of hers in "Forbidden Pleasures" (she and I think quite alike when it comes to this couple) ;o) **elleisforlovee** who really wanted to hear from Mama Branson (hope you approve!) AND **gothamgirl28**, who let me borrow _The Irish Republic_ (the fictional newspaper she features in her story "Celebrating"). Anyway, I won't say much more other than this chapter I think earned its T-rating status ;o) AND I just hope you enjoy and it gives you LOTS of Sybil/Tom fuzzy feels. _

_SO HERE IT IS! The last chapter to the almost last part of the last volume. Chapter 156 will begin Part III of Vol. III...the end is in sight my friends!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Fifty-Five<strong>

The waiting was becoming excruciating.

Tom often prided himself on his patience. In the beginning, like most little boys, he hadn't been very good about "waiting his turn", but his mother quickly instilled in him the importance of the virtue, especially when she explained to him that being the eldest, he needed to set a good example for his younger siblings. His mother did her best in teaching all her children the importance of being patient. Good things would come, she would say. If you worked hard and were patient, good things were bound to come.

And in many ways, his mother had been right. He had worked hard to win Sybil's affections, to win her heart. He never gave up, even when things looked so bleak. And then miraculously, it finally happened. Not only did she return his feelings, but she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him, to build a future with him, a future worth having. He had worked hard and he had been patient. And something wonderful had finally happened.

But now was a different waiting game, one with difficulty he had never fully comprehended until he found himself lost in it. He knew Sybil's feelings, he knew that she wanted him just as much as he wanted her, and not simply in the sense of wanting to spend the rest of her life with him, but in _every sense_, both emotionally…and carnally.

And that was where the waiting was becoming excruciating.

Now that he knew what was it like to hold her and kiss her, it was becoming harder and harder to stop. Their stolen moments were not as frequent as either of them would have liked, but Tom knew it was probably for the best simply because it was becoming more and more difficult for him to control himself. Between the two of them, Sybil was certainly the less experienced, but by God, she was a fast learner! They had found themselves blessed with such a moment a week ago; Sir Richard had come up from London in his new car, and insisted on taking Lady Mary for a drive since the weather was pleasant for early spring. Meanwhile, Tom had just brought Old Lady Grantham and Mrs. Crawley over to the big house to once again go over wedding plans with Miss Swire. His Lordship and Mr. Matthew naturally retreated to the library, while all of the ladies, minus Lady Mary, talked and planned in the drawing room. He learned all of this from Sybil, who had made some excuse about having a headache, thus allowing her the chance to slip away from everyone else…and retreat once more to the garage.

He had been reading the newspaper when she entered, but the second he saw her in the doorway, he quickly tossed it aside and opened his arms out to her, to which she flew as if God had given her wings. The second their bodies collided, the world seemed to melt away instantly. Her lips were hot and desperate against his, demanding his kiss, demanding his passion! He attempted to clumsily stumble across the room, wanting to shut and bolt the garage door in order to keep any prying eyes away, but Sybil would not let him go, in fact there was a point when _she_ had him pressed against the bonnet of the Renault, her fingers clawing at his neck and shoulders, while her lips devoured his.

They both gasped for air as if their heads had been held underwater, only to drown once again, the need for kissing becoming more important than the need to breathe.

"Sybil…" he groaned and gasped her name, one hand at her back, pulling her closer, while the other cradled the back of her head, his fingers threading through her hair, causing the dark brown tresses to come loose from the pins either she or Anna had taken the time to put up. If she cared, she didn't show it. She pushed her body even closer, and he groaned in exquisite agony, feeling her beautiful, generous curves against him. He had fantasized about her for so long, in every way imaginable. It was a rare night when she didn't fill his dreams, and ever since they had returned from London, his dreams had become more and more…erotic. And her doing what she was doing now, _rubbing herself_ against his body in such a primal, primitive manner, wasn't helping.

"Sybil—oh God, love…stop…stop…" he groaned, trying to gain some control, his hands forcing themselves to grasp her shoulders and gently pull her away, even though every fiber in his being was screaming at him not to. How easy it would be to pick her up and carry her just a few steps into the very car they were leaning against? To lay her upon its cushioned seats and to lose themselves, _finally_, to the passion that was boiling deep within them? God, it was tempting. _Very_ tempting.

"I love you, Tom…" she moaned, her face pressed against his neck, her lips leaving sweet, delicate kisses against his throat, his Adam's apple; it was the most beautiful torture.

"I love you too," he managed to gasp, his fingers gently cupping her face and bringing it away from his neck so he could look into her eyes. The passionate haze that filled them, that made the blue so dark, reminding him of a storm at sea…sweet heaven, that look was even more arousing than what her body had been doing just a few moments before. "I love you so much, my darling," he leaned close and placed a kiss against her brow, marveling as he always did about the softness of her skin.

She was blushing, he noticed, but the look on her face wasn't one of embarrassment or shame, thank God. If anything, it could best be described as bashful. "I suppose I got carried away, didn't I?" she murmured, blushing some more, but smiling up at him.

She was so beautiful; Tom knew that for as long as he lived, he would always marvel at her beauty. It just…radiated throughout. "I'm not complaining, love," he chuckled, leaning in and giving her nose a kiss before tucking her close against him, sighing happily as he felt her arms move around him and hug him tightly just as he wrapped his own around her lovely frame. He loved that she hadn't apologized for her actions. He was glad for that; it was another blessed reminder that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

"You know I'm still waiting for you to return my packages," she told him, her voice muffled slightly by his chest.

He couldn't help but laugh. "But to do that would mean I would have to let go and leave—"

"No," she clutched him even tighter, burrowing her face even further against the warm forest green wool of his livery jacket. "Another day," she murmured, relaxing against him and breathing him in, just as he was breathing in the lovely scent of her hair.

It was becoming a common joke between the two of them, him holding her "mysterious packages" hostage. It had been several weeks since he had fetched the packages and wrote to her about them. The very next day she had stalked down to the garage "demanding" that he return them. She ended up chasing him all around the garage, him laughing at her agitated groans of exasperation, until he turned on her mid-chase and caught her up in his arms, kissing her so deeply that she had nearly lost the ability to stand, if his arms hadn't been wrapped around her. As far as he was concerned, she had "paid the toll" that day, raining his face with the sweet touch of her lips, yet the packages still remained in his possession, along with her stray stocking. He wasn't sure if the reason she hadn't collected her things was because she wanted him to give her a "bigger toll", or if she simply liked the excuse of "having" to go seek him out and make her demand, before kissing him senselessly again. Either way, he treasured these moments more than he could possibly say.

"Oh Tom…" he heard her murmur against him.

"What is it, love?"

She sighed and lifted her head just slightly, blushing and smiling as she gazed up at him. "I can't wait until we're married."

Oh how it made his heart soar to hear her say those words. It wasn't the first time she had spoken them, or written them down in the many letters they had exchanged, but he never tired of hearing her say them and once again, it was another blessed reminder that this was her choice, loving him.

"Neither can I, love," he sighed, his lips grazing her brow once again. "Neither can I."

She smiled and he felt her little fingers move around to the front of his jacket, where they began to play with the buttons and the open lapel. "You know…" she began, then stopped, and Tom noticed that she was biting her lip in that provocative way that drove him mad with desire, especially when it was combined with an intoxicating blush and mischievous smile.

"What?" he asked, trying to meet her eyes which were bashfully avoiding his. "Oh come now, you can't say that and _not_ tell me…" he playfully growled, his fingers ghosting over her sides, making a tiny motion that threatened a tickle, causing Sybil to wriggle against him delightfully.

"Don't you dare!" she warned him, trying to look haughty and intimidating, but if anything it only caused his fingers to twitch a little more against her.

"Don't you stand there and not finish your sentences," he chuckled, giving her sides a little tickle and laughing as she squealed and wriggled some more.

"Tom! Stop!" she laughed and then quickly yielded as he tickled just a little more. "Fine! Fine, I'll tell you!" she blushed, giving him a look that was meant to be disapproving, however her smile betrayed her. "I was…well, to be perfectly frank, I was just thinking how…'unnervous' I am."

He looked a little confused. "Unnervous?" he repeated. "Is that even a word, love?"

She swatted his chest, but he simply chuckled. "Go on then, tell me why you are feeling 'unnervous'."

She bit her lip and her cheeks grew an even darker shade of pink. One of her hands flew to her mouth and she gasped and giggled behind it. "Alright," she said at last, taking a deep breath and meeting his eyes. "I…I never really thought a great deal about…well, about what it would be like, getting married—being married before…"

He nodded his head. He knew that, based on the letters they had exchanged, and it always reminded him how lucky he was, that this amazing woman had never seriously considered marriage, let alone thought about it, until he had proposed. He always believed that people made their own destinies, but it did sometimes seem that fate was leading them to one another.

"Well," she continued, "You see…there are all these stories that…that are passed down, from mothers to their daughters," she explained. "Stories about a wife's 'duty' to her husband…"

His eyes widened slightly, realizing the meaning behind her words. "Sybil," he spoke in a very serious tone, his hands rising once again to cup her face, wanting her to see the sincerity in his gaze. "I would never expect you to do something you didn't want to. I…I know what you mean, but I have never agreed with that understanding."

Her own eyes widened at this. "You don't believe a wife has a duty in seeing to her husband's needs?"

_Well when you put it like that…_

But he told the lust in his body to pipe down and he shook his head at her question. "I believe marriage should be a partnership; that a husband and wife are equals unto each other. Both have needs," he said, feeling his own cheeks color, especially at the little grin she gave when he spoke. "But those needs should be met and…and satisfied," he swallowed, feeling his face grow even hotter. "Because both _want_ to. The moment it feels like a 'duty' to perform…well, then it's not fair or right for either member." He gazed into her eyes and tenderly ran his thumbs along her cheekbones. "I never want you to feel like you _have_ to do something; when we're together, I hope and pray it will always be because you _want_ to be. Please…always be honest with me about that."

Despite the mischievous giggles and grins she had been showing earlier, her face did shine with understanding and she nodded her head in agreement. "I promise," she murmured, her own hands rising to caress his cheeks, and he sighed, leaning forward until his brow touched hers. She grinned and whispered a sweet thank you, which caused him to lift his head away just slightly in confusion. "For being you," she explained, smiling and blushing, but her eyes shining with happy emotion. "For coming into my life, for loving me." She held his gaze as her fingers danced along his cheeks. "For not giving up on me, even when I gave you reason—" He stopped her talk by pressing his lips against hers. He would hear no more, especially if she were going to berate herself.

It was not a deep kiss, but it did linger, and when their lips parted at last, he was pleased to see a sweet smile of happiness.

"I never finished my story," she giggled. "About being 'unnervous'?"

He chuckled and leaned his forehead against hers again. "My apologies, milady; please, by all means…"

She once again gave his chest a playful swat, but she smiled and looked up at him with bashful eyes once more. "What I was trying to say is…well, you hear stories as I mentioned, about a wife fulfilling her duties to her husband. And…and I never really understood how such stories were supposed to help," she tried to explain. "I mean, they're never pleasant! It's always what you 'should' do, rather than what you 'want' to do, but more than that, they're always told as a way to explain and…and…well, and excuse how 'unpleasant' the experience is going to be!"

Good Lord, was that what this was about? He was honestly tongue-tied and not quite sure what to say. He didn't want to sound boastful and tell her that it was going to be the very opposite of unpleasant, although so help him God, when the time came, he would do everything in his power to make sure it was as "pleasant" as possible. However, he wasn't an idiot either; he knew that the first time could be painful. And it suddenly dawned on him that of the few previous experiences he had had, none of those girls had been virgins. Oh God, now on top of wanting to make their first time the opposite of unpleasant, he also had to remember to be as gentle and careful as possible because the last thing he wanted to do was cause her any sort of pain!

"Tom?"

He swallowed and looked down at her, realizing that his mind had wandered away with these thoughts, and judging by the concerned way she was looking at him, he wasn't helping in reassuring her that he would do everything he could to prove those stories, no doubt written by repressed Victorians, wrong.

"Sorry, love, I…" he felt very embarrassed and didn't really know what to say. "I…well, like I had said earlier, I will never ask you to do anything you don't want to—"

"Oh Tom, you misunderstand!" she giggled, smiling up at him and blushing. "I'm not doing a very good job in explaining myself," she moaned, pressing her face against his shoulder and letting out a little squeal, before lifting her head again and looking most determined. "What I'm trying to say is…that despite all those stories, I…I'm _not_ nervous."

He stared back at her, her words ringing in his head like a loud bell. "You're…you're not?" _That makes one of us, at least._

She blushed, but shook her head. "No, I…oh gracious," she gasped and once again pressed her face against him, another bashful squeal escaping her lips and drowning itself against the fabric of his jacket. "No," she said again, lifting her head and trying to look firm. "If anything…I…I'm rather _eager_!"

Thank heaven he was the one leaning against the car, because it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing at her revelation.

_This is surely what every man longs to hear? The woman they love, the woman they desire more than anything else, tell them that not only does she want you in the most intimate physical way a couple can be together, but that she's EAGER for that moment! _

Good God; what would Lord Grantham make of that? His youngest daughter, the one whom Mrs. Hughes had often referred to as "the sweetest spirit", standing there in the Downton garage, telling the Crawley family chauffeur (to whom she was secretly engaged) that she couldn't wait to be married to him because she wanted him to make love to her! That she was looking forward to that sweet moment! That she wasn't nervous about it the way some women might be, that she was most eager, that she…

Oh God, she didn't just want him to make love to her, _she_ wanted to make love _to him!_

He didn't know why this surprised him the way it did. After all, the passionate way she kissed him, both earlier and during all those other stolen moments should have told him enough. And the letters they exchanged, why they were growing more and more erotic with the way in which they teased each other mercilessly, her giving him intimate details about how she would prepare herself for bed at night, how she imagined him lying next to her, holding her, asking him how they would sleep when they shared a bed, wanting to know WHAT HE WORE when he slept, _if_ he wore anything.

Indeed; Sybil Crawley was quite the opposite of nervous. Like she had said, she was rather "unnervous" about this side of married life.

"Tom?"

He swallowed and looked back down at her. She looked a little troubled, and his first thought was that it was his fault, that he had said…or perhaps, _had not said_…something to make her feel this way. However, before he could open his mouth to further ask what the matter was, she told him.

"Matthew and Lavinia have set a date," she explained.

He was a little confused, but nodded his head. "Oh?" He didn't know if he should offer congratulations or condolences. He knew that Sybil had mixed feelings about the marriage, mainly because she still believed and had always believed that Matthew was better suited for her sister. However, he also knew that Sybil liked Miss Swire and got along with her very well, and he did not envy the conflict to where her heart's loyalties lay in the situation.

"The first Saturday in April," she explained. "They were talking about it before I came out here." She looked down then and Tom could tell that the troubled expression he had noticed earlier had grown quite a bit.

"What is it, love? You can tell me," he reassured, wanting to ease whatever was troubling her if he could.

She bit her lip and looked up at him, and he saw tears shimmering in her eyes and his heart broke at the pain that was there.

"I…I know that we're still waiting," she tried to explain, taking a deep breath and swallowing the emotional lump in her throat. "But…but it occurred to me, as I listened to Lavinia and Isobel talk excitedly about the wedding that…that if…if we leave before…" her voice trailed off and she lowered her eyes as if she were ashamed.

He understood. "You don't want to cause a scandal," he murmured, finishing her thoughts.

She looked up at him and the tears were beginning to fall. "Oh Tom, I'm so sorry, I…I don't mean—"

"Ssshh," he hushed, kissing her cheeks, specifically where he saw the tears. "It's alright, love, it's alright," he soothed. He hated that their desire to marry would be labeled as something as ugly as a "scandal", however he was not ignorant. She was the daughter of his employer, who also happened to be the Earl of Grantham. He was a working class Irish Catholic, who also happened to be a servant in Lord Grantham's house. Their union was the sort written about in novels and passed down amongst aristocratic ladies as stories of "warning" to young girls who might dare give their hearts to boys and men deemed "unworthy" in the eyes of Society. Yes, he hated that people would speak of their love in such a way, not bothering to see how perfectly suited he and Sybil were for each other, but sadly, that was the reality of the world in which they lived, at least for the moment.

"I just…I don't want to steal Matthew and Lavinia's thunder," she tried to explain. "And I fear that once the truth is known about us—"

"I understand," he assured her. And he did. And it was another reason as to why he loved her so much; there was truth to what Mrs. Hughes said, Sybil was the sweetest spirit, as greatly evidenced by her desire to help the wounded during the War, and help Gwen fulfill her dream to leave service. She was always thinking of others, always trying to do her part to help in some way, if she could. No, he could never fault her for that, even if it did mean putting off their plans just a little longer.

"I'm so sorry, Tom," she apologized again. "I know it's selfish of me to ask you to wait, _again_—"

"Sybil," he interrupted, holding her face tenderly. "First, stop apologizing love; you've done nothing wrong," he chuckled, hoping the sound would remove any guilt she felt. "Second, I can't fault you for wanting to do this, because _it is_ the right thing. I do like Mr. Matthew; he's a good man in many respects, and both he and Miss Swire deserve to celebrate their wedding without having to spend the time explaining…" he stopped himself from saying the word "scandal", mainly because he knew it would only anger and upset him, and right now that wasn't what Sybil needed to hear. Besides, she had never said the word in the first place. "Really, it's alright," he assured, putting on a smile and hoping it would convince her that it truly was. "I love you and I told you, I'd wait forever. I still mean that, love."

She smiled then, and he was glad to see to it. "You have the patience of a saint; I don't deserve you."

"Ah, don't say that," he softly chuckled, leaning in and nuzzling her brow, before letting his lips move and trail up into her hair. "I'm not perfect, love—far from it. But you make me want to be."

She tilted her face to his then and he didn't hesitate. Their lips lingered against one another for a long time, savoring the texture and taste, as well as absorbing strength from each other to continue facing the weeks ahead. _Besides,_ he thought to himself. _It's not as if I have any news; that there's some job lined up and waiting for me back in Dublin. _ Would there ever be? His doubts were getting worse.

…Until today.

Tom was in the Servant's Hall, hoping to find some distraction from the excruciation of what sometimes felt like this endless waiting, when Mr. Carson dropped two envelopes in front of him.

"Post for you, Mr. Branson," he simply stated, before moving on with his duties.

Tom set the newspaper he had been reading aside, and looked down at the two letters with curious eyes…and a rapidly beating heart as he noticed the addresses.

Ireland. They were both from Ireland.

The smaller one was from an address he knew very well.

_Mam_.

His mother had replied at last to the letter Sybil had written all those weeks ago. As for the other letter, it was also from Dublin, specifically from a newspaper office he had sent some material to about the same time Sybil had written her letter to his mother.

Two very different letters, but both of which held his and Sybil's future in their hands.

And he didn't dare open either without her.

_Marriage should be a partnership_; he meant what he had said to her. And even though they weren't married yet, he didn't want to face these letters without the woman he already thought of as his wife, by his side.

But how was he to get word to her? The idea of writing a letter and sticking it into one of his Lordship's books and wait until she happened to check the library was beyond excruciating. No, he needed to speak with her right away…and there was really only one person who could help him.

"Anna!" he hissed, rising from the table and moving to where she sat, opposite of Mr. Bates who was mending one of his Lordship's shirt collars. Thank God Thomas and O'Brien were out having a smoke; he didn't want either of their curious eyes to follow him as he sought out help from the head housemaid.

Anna looked a bit startled by the way Tom had spoken her name; however she saw the distress on his face and quickly rose, following him as he motioned towards a corner of the room. He liked Bates, and believed he could trust him if need be, but at the same time, he also knew that Bates was close to his Lordship, and the last thing he wanted to do was put the valet in an awkward position about staying silent when what Tom had to say involved one of his Lordship's daughters.

"What is it?" she asked, her dark eyes searching his. "What's wrong?"

He took a deep breath and held her gaze. "I need you to go and find Sybil and ask her to meet me at my cottage right away."

Anna gasped and quickly looked around, checking to see if there were any eavesdropping ears. With the exception of Bates, no one seemed to be paying any attention to them.

"Please, Anna!" he begged. "It's extremely important and it cannot wait."

He saw the conflict flash before her eyes, knowing that what he was asking put her in a difficult position. She had told him that she supported both he and Sybil and even went so far as to say that she thought the two of them were perfect for one another, that they were meant to be! But he knew she struggled when it came to "breaking the rules"; bending them was one thing, but this was out-right breaking them.

Still…Anna was his friend, and she knew that he would never do anything to harm Sybil, that he loved her and wanted to properly marry her. Truly, if anyone could relate to his and Sybil's cause, it was Anna.

"Alright," she whispered, nodding her head with resolution. "I believe she's upstairs reading, either in her room or the library. I'll find her and tell her, but that's all I can promise."

"That's more than enough," he smiled, before leaning in and causing her to gasp when he gave her a quick embrace, and then darting out of the Servant's Hall, past a confused looking Bates, clutching his two envelopes and going directly to his cottage, where he proceeded to pace while he waited for Sybil.

Thank heaven he did not have to wait long.

She burst into his cottage but ten minutes later, her eyes wide with worry. "Tom?" She met his eyes and he saw her smile with relief at the sight of him, before quickly crossing the room to embrace him. He was grateful for the hug, and held her close, feeling some calmness finally wash over him now that she was here. But she quickly pulled back, her hands holding his and her eyes seeking his for an answer? "What is it? Anna said it was an emergency?"

He took a deep breath, and then pulled out the two envelopes from his waistcoat. "These came today," he murmured, showing her the first, the one with his mother's name on it.

Sybil's eyes widened and with trembling fingers, she took the envelope from his hands. "You…you haven't opened it yet?" she asked, looking up at him when she realized that the seal was not broken.

He shook his head. "I wanted you to be here, in fact…I want you to read it," he murmured, squeezing her hand affectionately.

Sybil's eyes snapped back to his. "Me?" she squeaked.

He nodded. "It seems only right, since you were the one who wrote to her last."

"Oh, but…but Tom," she was shaking her head, looking so nervous as she gazed down at the envelope. "But it's addressed to you!"

"My name may be on it, but what's written inside is meant for both of us," he assured, squeezing her hand once more. "Go on, love; please?"

She nibbled her bottom lip and glanced at him, still looking unsure, but finally nodded her head and swallowed, before taking a deep breath…and tearing open the seal.

His hand never left hers as she opened the letter and began to read out loud.

"'_My dearest son…and…and Lady Sybil',"_ she began, before looking up and meeting his eyes. "Oh gracious, she did write it to both of us!"

He couldn't help but smile at that. "Told you," he chuckled, before squeezing her hand to encourage her to continue.

"'_I will not deny that your letter did come as a surprise',"_ she read. _"'At first I was angry that Tommy dared to show you my letter, but I shouldn't have been surprised I suppose; and I will say it does him a great credit to not be ashamed of his mother and her opinions, or at least to not be so ashamed that he wouldn't consider sharing those thoughts and opinions with the woman he insists on marrying…',"_

Tom rolled his eyes, but squeezed Sybil's fingers tenderly, nodding his head and encouraging her to go on.

"'_I must say, I was impressed with your response. You certainly proved your Englishness by the calm way in which you replied; had I been in your shoes, my Irish temper would have gotten the better of me, I think'."_

Tom groaned but nodded his head, urging her to continue.

"'_Well I'm not going to lie; I think the both of you are very foolish'—"_

Tom muttered something under his breath, but Sybil squeezed his hand, and he looked at her apologetically, more for his mother's words than for the soft curse he had uttered.

"'_And I do have my doubts; there are so many things stacked against the both of you, and I just don't know if anyone can be that strong. However, I…',"_ Sybil paused, feeling the emotion bubble up in her throat. _"'However, I can see why Tommy loves you…'_," she paused again as she felt his fingers run across her knuckles lovingly. She looked into his eyes and he smiled back, before lifting her hand to his lips and placing a gentle kiss on the skin. _"'Despite your background and upbringing, I must say that the two of you are remarkably alike. There were times when I thought I was reading my son's hand! The only thing that convinced me was the elegant penmanship, as opposed to his scribbling—'_ That's not fair, I think you have lovely handwriting—"

Tom laughed and kissed her hand again. "Keep reading, love."

"'_I will not say I approve, nor will I say I agree with what you are doing. However…',"_ Sybil took a deep breath. _"'However, I can reassure you, that if you both are that stubborn and insist on seeing this through, and if you are anything like my son, then I already know the answer to that question…then I will not close my door on the pair of you. No doubt when the time comes and you make your announcement, you'll need to leave right away. Therefore, if you think you can tolerate a simple Irishwoman's house, compared to a grand estate like Downton Abbey—'"_

"Mam," he groaned, running his free hand over his face. He would have to have a serious talk with his mother one of these days about manners. She insisted on them with her children, but she sometimes seemed to forget about them when they involved herself.

Sybil giggled and Tom looked over at her, warmed by the sound. He couldn't deny, he was rather embarrassed by his mother's words, but he was glad Sybil wasn't allowing them to get the better of her.

"'_Then you can stay here, with me, while the bands are read, until the time comes and you can both be married'."_

Sybil looked up at him and he saw a hopeful smile spread across her beautiful features. "She's offering us her home! Oh Tom, this is wonderful!"

He stared at his bride in amazement. She saw good in everything, didn't she? She had every right to be bothered and offended by what his mother had said, but she didn't seem bothered in the least! If anything, he would say his mother had just earned a loyal friend, by saying she would open her home and allow Sybil to stay there.

Thank God. Tom closed his eyes and quickly murmured a thankful prayer that his mother was at least willing to do that. He had no doubt, knowing his mam, that she wouldn't make things easy for either of them, but at the very least, she wasn't casting them off. And her providing Sybil a place to stay before they were married would certainly make things a little smoother, when the two of them made their announcement, whenever that would be.

…Or as smooth as telling the Earl of Grantham that his youngest was going to marry his former chauffeur and move all the way to Ireland. Which in truth, was quite the opposite of smooth.

Her arms were around him then, her hands linked around his neck and she was beaming and grinning up at him, looking so happy. She stood on her tip toes and pressed her lips against his, and Tom couldn't help but smile as he returned her kiss, his own arms moving around her and holding her close. She had a magical way of giving him hope, despite all his worries and concerns.

"Is that the last of it?" he asked, grinning down at her when their lips finally parted.

"There's a little more, where she talks about your siblings and cousins, but I'll leave that for you to read," she told him, looking so happy and relieved. Oh how he wanted give her days when she always looked at him like this.

"Oh!" Sybil gasped, her eyes going wide. "You said 'these came to day', meaning there was more than one letter!"

Nothing got past her. He nodded his head and disentangled himself from her arms to pull out the other envelope.

"Tom…" she whispered, staring at the envelope he held. "Is…is that…?"

"It's a reply," he answered, trying to swallow the nervous lump in his throat. "From _The Irish Republic…_"

Sybil's face lit with recognition. "I remember you mentioning them; it was one that Edward recommended to you, wasn't it?"

Edward Warren, Gwen's husband, had been very helpful in Tom's job search. He used what connections he had through customers of the telephone company to learn as much as possible about the many different newspapers in Ireland. He had written to Tom, telling him all about _The Irish Republic_—a small paper, but one that had a growing following, especially amongst Irish Republicans. It was even rumored to be a favorite of Michael Collins himself. Edward sent Tom all the information he could about _The Irish Republic_, and based on what he read, as well as any additional research he had been able to find, the paper seemed to be a very good fit for someone of his political leanings. It had been a near impossible task, finding a copy of the paper itself, but found one he did, at an obscure newspaper stand outside a tiny and rather revolutionary bookshop he happened to come upon, during one of his drives to York for his Lordship. His feelings about the paper were confirmed even further, and that very afternoon after returning, he sat down and typed a letter to the editor, sending it along with several essays he had written on socialist perspectives as an Irish republican, working in under the aristocracy in Britain.

God, that had been weeks ago! Perhaps even a month! He couldn't even remember what he had said in the letter, and now he was nervously wondering if perhaps the reason for the delay in a response was because he had insulted them, or given them all a good laugh with his mediocre writings?

"Tom?"

He was pulled back to the present by Sybil's voice and the feel of her hand on his chest, touching him just above his heart.

"Open it," she whispered, smiling up and him and nodding her head in encouragement.

He looked down at the envelope and swallowed again. If only he had her confidence.

"It feels very light…"

"That doesn't mean it's a 'no'."

"It doesn't mean it's a 'yes', either," he sighed. She forgot that he had experience with letters like this before. All of them felt the same.

Her hands covered his, and she squeezed them, before leaning close and pressing her lips just over his heart. "Open it, my love; and whatever it says…we'll face it together."

He looked at her and felt that nervous lump in his throat quickly become an emotional one. The faith she had in him was extraordinary. And she thought she didn't deserve him?

"Alright…" he sighed at last. He closed his eyes and prayed that it was not another rejection, simply because he didn't think he could stand to see her upset when she learned the truth. They both held their breath as he broke the seal and opened the envelope, removing the letter and with shaky fingers, unfolding it to read what it said.

He opened his eyes and looked.

Sybil stood right there, her hands pressed against his chest, over his heart, holding her breath, waiting…

His eyes scanned the few lines that were written. No wonder it felt so light; it was a single sheet of paper and the letter itself was quite short.

A long shaky breath escaped his lungs.

Sybil's own breath caught in her throat, and she stared at him, waiting for him to say something, to reveal something.

Finally, he lifted his eyes and met hers, holding her gaze for the longest time.

"I got the job."

She stared at him, her eyes widening as his words sunk in.

"OH!" she gasped, her hands covering her mouth as she stared back at him, before a delighted squeal escaped from behind her fingers. She then threw her arms around his shoulders, and Tom caught her, lifting her off her feet and spun her around, laughing and crying at the same time, the letter momentarily forgotten as they happily clung to each other.

He had done it. He had a job. A _newspaper_ job!

_ "I won't always be a chauffeur…"_

He had spoken those very words to her years ago; and she had believed him. She had _always_ believed in him.

They stopped spinning only so he could kiss her, his hands cupping her face, his mouth eagerly finding hers, kissing her desperately, thanking her for never giving up on him, for always having faith that he could do this…and now he had.

Just like Gwen, he was going to leave service too. Leave it and never go back.

Just like Gwen, he was going to fulfill his dream.

Just like Gwen…he had Sybil to thank for helping him.

"Tom," she managed to gasp between kisses. "Oh Tom," she giggled, her own hands pressing against his chest, but he couldn't stop, he couldn't help himself! He loved her, he loved her so much, and he was so happy!

A new job. A new beginning.

_We can leave now; we can go to Ireland; we can be married!_

"Tom!" Sybil laughed, her fingers managing to slide up and cover his mouth to momentarily put a stop to his kisses so she could speak. He simply continued to kiss her fingers, grinning behind them at the blush on her face. "Tell me what it says!" she giggled, eager to hear what _The Irish Republic_ had written.

Well he couldn't very well fault her that. He scooped the letter from where it had fallen, including the envelope—and stared as he realized there was something else inside it, but he had somehow missed.

"What the—?" he removed the small slip of paper that had been carefully folded within the envelope and opened it.

His eyes widened even more.

"What? What is it?" Sybil asked, seeing his expression change and his face pale.

He looked at her, and then gave the paper…which happened to be a cheque.

"They're giving me an advance," he murmured in shock, his trembling fingers opening the letter once more and scanning it quickly; how could he have missed such an important detail? But sure enough, there at the bottom, he saw it mentioned.

"Oh Tom…" she gasped, looking up at him, her eyes shimmering with happy tears as she reverently returned the cheque to him. "That's wonderful! You truly must have impressed them with your writing!"

He looked down at the cheque once again in wonder. It wasn't a huge amount of money, but the fact that they had already sent him something meant that he and Sybil wouldn't have to immediately dip into what money he had saved for their new life together.

"Sybil…" he looked at her, tucking the cheque carefully into his waistcoat pocket. "What do you want to do about your family?"

The happy smile on her face fell slightly at the mention of them. "My family?"

"Aye," he nodded, taking her hands in his and squeezing them tenderly. "I know that you want to wait till after your cousin's wedding—"

"That's on Saturday," Sybil murmured, more to herself than to him.

"I…I'm just saying…" what was he saying? "I'm just…I want you to know, that if you still want to do what we had always planned—to tell your family the day after I received this news, that's fine; I'm ready to do that."

She seemed to tremble then, and he saw the happy light that was in her eyes die away, replaced now with sadness and perhaps a little fear. It broke his heart to see such a look, and brought her hands to his lips and kissed them, hoping the gesture would reassure her.

"But I know that you didn't want to leave until after the wedding, and…the only reason I'm bringing this up, is because I can use some of this money to purchase a room at the Grantham Arms, just for a little bit. Until after the wedding, which as you said is only a few days away…"

His voice trailed off at how quiet she had become. Oh God, had he pushed her too far? Was she having second thoughts? No, no, she was just nervous; after so many weeks and months of planning and preparing, they had gotten used to simply doing that: planning and preparing. Now the reality was here, now it was time for the next step; now was the opportunity for them to burn their bridges, and move forward.

"Yes…"

He had barely heard her, her voice was so soft. "What did you say, love?"

She swallowed and looked up at him and taking a deep breath, nodded her head. "Yes," she whispered once more. "Yes…I…I want to tell them…tomorrow, just like we had planned."

She looked so hesitant. "Love…are you sure? If you want to wait until after the wedding—"

"No," she shook her head. "No, no more waiting. We've done enough of that." Her hands found his and she laced their fingers together. "Tomorrow, after dinner; come to the drawing room. We'll tell everyone, together."

He couldn't help but smile tenderly at her, lifting one hand to her face, his fingers softly stroking the skin. His brave English beauty; his dearest friend, his fiancée, his heroine.

His Sybil.

He was leaning down to kiss her once again, but her hands stopped him, flying to his shoulders and gripping them. "Wait!" she gasped, her eyes going wide as if…an idea had just sprung to her head.

"Love, what is—?"

"Give me fifteen minutes."

He was confused. "Fifteen minutes?"

She simply nodded. "We're going for a drive!" she told him, turning and walking briskly towards his door.

Drive? Drive where? "Sybil?" he called after her, but she was already leaving the cottage.

"Have the car ready!" she called back to him, before rushing back to the house, leaving him standing there, looking absolutely flummoxed by her request. Where on earth did she want to drive?

However, he supposed it didn't really matter too much. It wasn't as if he was going to be working at Downton after tomorrow, nor would his Lordship be giving him a reference after they made their announcement.

As requested, he had the car ready by the time she returned. He looked at her, puzzled, noticing that beneath her blue jacket, she had changed clothes, and she was wearing that strange little hat of hers, the same hat she had worn that day he had taken her to York.

"Good, good, excellent," she murmured, looking him over and nodding her head in agreement. He looked down at himself, completely confused. He was wearing his livery, just like he always did when he took any member of the Crawley family driving. But he shrugged his shoulders, putting on his hat, and climbed into the car as Sybil settled herself in the back, her trembling fingers trying to remain folded upon her lap.

"And um…where are we driving?" he asked, getting behind the wheel.

"Do you trust me?"

His brow furrowed and he turned to look at her. "What?"

"Do you trust me?" she repeated, looking at him expectedly.

He was still confused, but he nodded his head to her question. "Aye…"

She smiled, and settled back in her seat. "Good," she whispered. "To York, Branson!"

York? "Sybil—?"

"Trust me, Tom," she reached forward and touched his shoulder, squeezing it lovingly.

He saw that beautiful faith which she radiated in her eyes, and felt it through her gloved fingers. "York," he replied, putting on a smile and nodding his head. "On our way, milady."

She giggled and settled back once more as he pulled the car away from Downton, wondering if anyone would notice? Did it matter? Lady Mary could make all the threats she wanted, it was quite clear that Sybil's mind had not been changed, despite the eldest Crawley daughter's belief that she could get Sybil to "come around". Still, why did Sybil suddenly wish to travel to York? And why had she changed clothes? But she had asked him to trust her…and he did, even if his mind was reeling with hundreds of questions. He trusted her; he believed in her just as she believed in him.

Upon reaching the city, Sybil directed him where to drive, and he was surprised when the school she had attended came into view. "Stop the car over there!" she told him, pointing to a familiar looking place, where he had parked once before.

"Sybil—?"

But she was already climbing down before he had even managed to pull the lever into park. "Come on," she said to him, rushing around the car and grabbing his hand, practically hauling him out with strength he didn't know she possessed!

She continued to pull him after her, moving through the little cobblestoned alleyways that the two of them had traveled once together before. He swallowed as those humiliating memories returned, memories he had worked long to repress, especially after she had told him that yes, she loved him and wanted to run away with him. Still, being here did remind him how not so long ago, he was still uncertain about the future for the both of them, if his dreams about a future with Sybil as his wife and God willing, the mother of his children, would remain just that: dreams. And things began to look more and more familiar from those nightmares that had haunted him during the first month she was away in York and he was left wondering what to do about his own life, alone, back at Downton.

"Sybil…"

"Nearly there!" she announced, still pulling him behind her. There were quite a few people walking around; many more so than there had been that day he had brought her to here. But if she had noticed, she was paying them no heed. She was clearly a woman with a mission, and so despite the uneasiness he was feeling in the pit of his stomach, he reminded himself over and over to trust her.

And then they were there; that infamous archway, just outside the dormitory where she had lived while attending the school.

The place where he had taken a risk, where he had made a huge gamble…and at the time, where he thought he had lost everything.

She dropped his hand then, and turned to face him, and he was struck then at how…horribly familiar this all seemed.

_She's wearing the same clothes as she had worn that day, right down to the very hat that's on her head._ Why was she doing this? Why had she insisted—?

"Ask me."

He looked at her in confusion. "W-w-what?" he stammered, trying his best to ignore the people who were walking past them, the young ladies who were entering and exiting the dormitory near where they were standing.

"Ask me," she repeated.

"Ask you?"

"Yes," she whispered, and he saw the emotion on her face, the strange contortion of pain, regret, sadness, and determination. "Ask me again."

Ask her again? What did she mean? What did she—

His eyes widened.

Ask her again.

They were standing in the same place where they had stood nearly four years ago. They were both dressed in the same clothes. He was even holding his hat the same way he had that day!

_Ask her again._

"Please…" he heard her voice whimper, and he looked at her and saw the tears streaming down her face, as she waited for him to say something, to do something, to…to make the wrongs of the past, right.

That was why she had insisted on coming here. They were about to take the next step, finally…but before they could, she was insisting that they rewrite history.

"Lady Sybil Patricia Crawley…" he murmured, tucking his hat under his arm, before reaching forward and taking her hands in his. "I've told myself and told myself that you're too far above me…but the world is changing; and I'll make something of myself—"

"I know you will," she whispered, grinning up at him despite the tears that were falling. She had never doubted.

He took a deep breath…and without a second's hesitation, did something he hadn't done all those years ago, and got down on one knee, causing her to gasp and lift one of her hands to cover her mouth to keep her sobs as bay while he enveloped her free hand between the two of his.

"Bet on me…" he repeated, his eyes never leaving hers. "And I promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness."

"YES!" she all but screamed, not caring if anyone jumped or gasped or stared. Tom laughed and then grunted as Sybil practically tackled him, her arms flying around his neck and shoulders, her lips finding his and kissing him fiercely, the two of them losing their balance and falling backwards, Sybil on top, completely oblivious to what was happening because she was too busy kissing him.

It was the marriage proposal he had wanted to give her. And her answer was the one he had always dreamed about.

Only it was better, even if it was the second time around.

It was worth it.


	156. 1919: A Third Letter to Gwen

_Here it is LJ fans; the LAST volume/part to Love's Journey! There's still a bit of a ways to go, but the end is in sight as we tackle the events of the last episode of S2, and prepare for the infamous "confrontation" with the Crawleys. _

_As always, thank you so much to all the readers, reviewers, and followers! I'm on the cusp! NEARLY 1000 reviews! AHHH! And I wouldn't have made it this far (156 chapters and counting) without all of you, so thank you for sticking with me and reading; indeed, it has been (dare I say) "journey" :oP Dedicating this chapter to ALL my dear S/T fandom friends. Thanks for your love and support!_

* * *

><p><strong>Volume III, Part III<strong>

_Spring, 1919_

**Chapter One-Hundred and Fifty-Six**

Dearest Gwen,

Oh forgive me, I…I feel I am going to burst with the emotions that are overflowing my very being, so please forgive the erratic way my pen scribbles across this paper, but I begged Tom, I literally begged him to let ME be the one to write to you and tell you all that has happened, and after he had a good laugh at my expense (does Edward do that? Laugh and tease until we have no choice but to smack their chests or shoulders? I rather think they enjoy that! Insufferable men); anyway, even though this letter is written in my hand, please read it as a letter from _both_ Tom and myself, which is rather perfect really, because from this moment on, any letters that either of us write will be from the _both of us_; from _the Bransons!_

Oh Gwen…can you not guess the most wonderful news that has happened? AH! It is impossible for me to sit still! My excitement is just…oh gracious, I shall try, I AM TRYING!

It's happened, Gwen, it's finally happened! Tom has a job! _The Irish Republic!_ It's one of the papers that Edward was so good to help him find! So please, please, from both Tom and myself, pass on our thanks to your dear husband, because Tom is certain that if it were not for Edward's help, he may never have written to _The Irish Republic_, and therefore would not be able to call himself by his new title: Tom Branson, journalist.

Oh Gwen, isn't it wonderful? Finally, after all these months of hard work, after the numerous essays and articles and letters that he has typed and written, and all the long hours he has spent either researching for those articles, or simply learning how to perfect his typing skills (which I am in absolute awe of the both of you, because I attempted not so long ago to type something, and good Lord, Gwen, however did you manage to learn in the first place?) but…oh Gwen, I don't even know how to express the joy I feel for him. Truly, I…I'm just so proud of him. So proud and so happy! So thank you, thank you to both you and Edward for all the help you have provided. And especially…thank you for your friendship; it has meant the world to me.

…

…

Oh Lord, and now I can't stop crying and I'm making the ink bleed!

…

Forgive me for that, meaning the runny ink. I don't ask forgiveness for my tears, because those were shed out of…out of such wonderful happiness! I am so blessed; truly, I am so blessed to have you for a friend.

…

…

Alright, I…I have my emotions under control, I am positive this time!

…

Or at least I shall try.

…

Anyway, of course…now that this has happened, now that Tom and I have this wonderful news…_now_ is the time to take the next step.

…Which is both thrilling…and rather terrifying.

…

Alright, perhaps "rather" is putting it a bit lightly.

Tom and I always planned on telling my family the day after he received word from a newspaper. Of course…I will not deny, that after so many weeks and months of waiting for that day to come, now that it's here at last, the prospect of actually going and standing before my parents and my grandmother and announcing to them and thus, the whole world, that I am in love with Tom Branson and fully intend to travel to Ireland to marry him…

Oh Lord, it's beyond terrifying. It's unbelievable, to be honest. That…that after so long, this day has finally come!

…

…

I'm nervous, Gwen. I'm nervous and I'm scared. Oh please, do not misunderstand, I love Tom, I want to marry him, I'm GOING to marry him, but…but I can't help but immediately begin imagining my family, especially my father, reacting very _badly_ to the news.

I suppose I can't fault him entirely for that. I have deceived all of them in hiding my feelings and intentions.

Well…I don't know if that's entirely fair, I mean I have made mention quite plainly that I wish to continue nursing, but…oh it doesn't matter, they will not understand. I wish I had Tom's faith, I wish I could believe as easily that in time, they will accept my choice, my decisions for my future, but…I have the greatest fear Gwen, that tomorrow night, when we make our announcement…I will also be saying my goodbye to them all.

I fear we will not part well.

…

It's strange; I'm sitting here in my room, writing this to you (it's nearly midnight but not quite), and…I find myself wondering if I shall ever sleep in that bed again? If I shall ever write at this desk? If I'll ever walk up and down Downton's corridors, or read a book from Papa's library, eat at the same table where I had my dinner this evening, sit and have coffee afterwards in the drawing room…

See or speak with any member of my family ever again…

…

This isn't the first time I've had such thoughts, of course; after all, once upon a time I had planned to run away and elope! And I think had I succeeded in doing that, I truly would have burned all my bridges and never be allowed to step foot on Downton's property ever again.

Oh Gwen, it's difficult to explain; I do want a new life, a life away from Downton. I am grateful for all that my family has done for me, but I have been realizing for quite some time, even before I met Tom and realized my feelings for him, that this life was never meant for me. I don't regret my decision, I truly don't. I said this to Tom once, and I meant it; he is the best guarantee for my happiness, both because I love him dearly, and because I know that the future I will have with him, no matter how difficult it will be at times, is the future and life that I want!

…But I will miss them.

I will miss my family; I do love them and I want, so very much, for them to accept my decision, all of my decisions for the future, but I fear…I just…

…

…

I hope I have done the right thing, Gwen; meaning that I didn't elope with Tom. Mary and Edith believe that by doing so, it would leave a permanent rift, and they are most likely right. However, even by telling them this way, I'm not sure if it's possible to avoid rifts, entirely.

I suppose in the end, I "want my cake and to eat it too". I want to leave Downton and be able to go forward and live the life I wish with the man I love, but at the same time, I want to know that I will have a loving family who will always welcome us back should we ever wish to visit. That's what I worry about the most, really. Not the walls, not the rooms, not the furniture, but the people. All these faces, from my parents to Carson and Mrs. Hughes; will I ever see them again? Will I be allowed to come back for Christmas' or summer holidays?

But I will not return if Tom is not allowed! This is actually something we haven't discussed, he and I, (mainly because it is far too painful a notion to comprehend), but…if Papa makes some sort of statement that says I am allowed back at Downton but my husband is not, well…well that shall be the end of that. To reject my husband is rejecting me. And I will not give him up, Gwen. _Never_.

…

…

After we returned, and just before dinner, I spent a good portion of my time walking about the grounds.

Oh, I should probably explain what I mean when I say "returned"; it's something that still makes smile (and Lord knows I need that right now); remember what I told you? About…about when Tom first proposed to me in York? After he received his acceptance from _The Irish Republic_, I suddenly had the whirlwind idea that the past needed to be corrected. Here we were, about to embark on this new adventure, but before we could leave for our new home, I…I just needed to put things to right from all those years ago, and say what I truly wanted to say deep in my heart, but had been too afraid to admit at the time! But I'm not afraid anymore, Gwen, I'm not! I love him! So I begged him to drive me back to York, and…gracious, it was a bit of a flair for the dramatic, I suppose, running upstairs and changing into the same clothes which I wore that day, but dressed as I had been (as well as for him), we traveled to York, and I dragged him by the hand to that infamous archway just outside my old dormitory, asked him to ask me again.

…

…

Oh Gwen…

…

_He got down on one knee!_ Oh help, I can't stop crying!

…

…

Alright, alright, I think—yes, yes, I am better now (I hope so!) But yes, he…Tom…oh Tom, he repeated those words he had said to me all those years ago, words that have long since been burned to my memory, only now I can smile at them as opposed to feeling heartbreak. It was beautiful, Gwen; the perfect proposal! And I kissed him right then and there, I don't care how many people saw us! I think I may have even toppled us over, I'm not sure; I was so lost in the beauty of the little world in which the two of us had created.

…

We didn't stay long; after all, no one knew where Tom had taken me or the car, since we didn't tell anyone, so we traveled back to Downton, but gracious, I was too giddy, I couldn't sit still, I needed to move, I needed to walk, and…and I realized that this was something I needed to do on my own, as mad as perhaps that sounds. Just…walk and take in everything, everything about the life I am about to leave behind and the new life I'm about to forge with Tom.

I've never been more happy or fearful in my life! Not even when I went to York, or even when Tom and I attempted to run away together to Gretna Green; because I know, deep in my heart, that this is really happening, that now after all these years, I am standing on the precipice of the future that I always wanted. And tomorrow…I will take my leap.

We'll be telling them after dinner tomorrow night. Everyone will be there, I was assured. Lavinia has been staying at Downton these last few weeks as she and Matthew make the final preparations for their wedding, and nearly every night, the both of them have had dinner with us.

I won't be leaving right away (unless Papa makes me); I've discussed this with Tom, and we agreed that it would not be fair to steal Matthew and Lavinia's thunder by my leaving just before their wedding. Besides, Matthew is more to me that than just my cousin; he's the older brother I never had! And I do want to wish him joy, truly. So after the wedding, that is when we will go. Although Tom is already prepared for what will happen to him; after we make our announcement he said he will hand in his notice. He told me that tomorrow he will begin packing his things and inquire about getting a room at the Grantham Arms. _The Irish Republic_ sent him an advance and that money will help pay for the room. Oh Gwen, is that selfish of me? To allow him to spend his money in such a way? I mean…we could wait; wait and tell everyone _after_ Matthew's wedding, but…but I confess, I…I…I don't want to wait anymore, I don't want continue…lying.

…

…

So we are going to tell everyone tomorrow night, just like we planned. And then Tom will hand in his notice, and go to the Grantham Arms and wait for me. Matthew and Lavinia will be married on Saturday, and I suppose on Monday, Tuesday at the latest, we will be leaving. Bound first for Liverpool, and then on our way to Dublin.

…

Oh Gwen…the way my heart is pounding!

Oh, I should also mention that we received word from Tom's mother. While…while she still doesn't agree with our decision, at the same time, she has written that she will not reject us! She will let me stay with her while the bans are read, which I know will reassure Mama at the very least to know that we are doing things "properly". But I'm just so happy for Tom that she will welcome us to Ireland. That has always been my greatest fear, Gwen, that I would somehow tear him away from his family, people who he hasn't seen in years! I would never forgive myself, but this does fill me with some relief!

Oh, but Gwen…forgive me, again (I can't seem to stop writing that!) but, while I know it's a bit much to ask, especially this soon, but…may we see you before we leave? Tom and I? May we visit you and Edward and the children? It's a slight detour from Liverpool, but I really, really would love to see you again before I leave England! And I have never seen your home, although I know Tom has. I'm not asking that we stay the night, but perhaps on the day we leave Downton, may we stop by and have a cup of tea with you?

Write me your answer as soon as you receive this, please. This letter should reach you before Saturday, and by that same token, if you write quickly, I should have your answer by Monday.

…

…

I miss you. Oh Gwen…this is happening, this is really, really happening! Oh pray for me, please, pray for us! And thank you again, both of you, for your help and friendship to the both of us during these years. Oh Gwen…have I ever told you that I love you? Because I do; you are as dear to me one of my own sisters, perhaps a little dearer, in some ways.

Thank you…always, for everything; thank you.

With love and affection,

—Sybil


	157. Calm Before the Storm

_SO MANY PEOPLE TO THANK! But I'll start off by saying *THANK YOU* to everyone who has read this story and has taken the time to review; it's happened! Over 1000 reviews! :oD And we're not even FINISHED YET! But oh that moment is almost here, *so close*! So thank you to everyone who has read this story, especially those of you who began reading and following it when it first appeared on FF back in January of 2012. Look how far we've come! Thank you again, and I hope you enjoy this brief calm before the storm hits ;o)_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Fifty-Seven<strong>

Her fingers were trembling. In truth, they hadn't stopped trembling since she had woken up, since she had written to Gwen the night before, since Tom had taken her hand and got down on one knee and proposed to her all over again, beneath that archway in York. She thought the day would move at an agonizingly slow pace, but in truth, it was going rather fast.

Too fast, perhaps.

The sky was darkening, the dressing gong had rung, and Sybil was trying desperately not to create a trench on the floor of her room as she paced back and forth.

Tonight. Tonight everything, her entire world, would change.

Tonight she would have her answer as to how her family would take the news about her decisions for the future.

Tonight she would know the truth; would they still acknowledge her existence and not stand in her way? Or would they turn their backs and tell the world that as far as they were concerned, she was dead to them.

Oh Lord, how was she going to make it through dinner? Her stomach was tied up into so many knots that she doubted she would be able to eat much if anything at all.

She hadn't gotten much sleep the previous night. She was a still giddy after Tom's news from _The Irish Republic_, as well as their impulsive drive to York and Tom's "re-proposal". However, as the night wore on, the nerves began growing, and Sybil's mind played out a hundred different scenarios to how her family would respond and react to when they learned the news at last…and sadly, none of them were positive.

She awoke to one such scenario, where the news caused her grandmother to have a heart attack right there in the drawing room. The images shook Sybil, and she glanced wearingly towards the window, watching the sun rise just over the horizon, announcing that it would be a beautiful day.

There was no point in going back to bed. She rose then and dressed herself, and decided to take a walk across the grounds as she had done in the late afternoon, yesterday. Only her feet didn't linger for very long on the garden path, and eventually she found herself in the Downton garage, sitting in her spot on the old workbench, waiting for Tom to come from either his cottage or the Servant's Hall.

Thankfully she didn't have to wait that long.

He strode in, carrying a mug full of coffee, leisurely sipping it as he made his way to the work table where the tool box lay. However he must have sensed that he wasn't alone, because he turned suddenly, and his eyes widened at seeing her sitting there quietly, giving him a somewhat sheepish smile.

"Sybil!" he said with surprise, although she was grateful to see a smile spread across his face. He quickly set the coffee down and moved to where she sat. "How long have you been sitting there?" he frowned upon noticing she didn't have a coat, and even though it was spring, the mornings were still quite cool. "Are you alright, love?"

She bit her lip and took a deep breath, before rising from the bench and moving into his arms which were already opened to accept her embrace. Immediately, all the fears and anxieties she had been feeling through the night and early into the morning began to melt away. Tom didn't say anything; he simply held her, his arms tight, one hand running up and down her back while the other cradled the back of her head.

"It's going to be alright," he murmured into her hair. Oh how she wanted to believe him. Still, she smiled and burrowed her face further into the dark green wool of his jacket.

She felt his fingers tenderly move up to her cheek, gently coaxing her face away from his shoulder so he could look into her eyes. "Did you get any sleep, my love?" he softly asked, his thumb carefully running under her eye, no doubt tracing the dark circles she knew to be there.

"A little," she answered truthfully. "But…it wasn't easy, I'll admit."

He nodded his head in understanding before leaning forward to kiss her brow. She smiled at the gesture, especially as he remained there, letting his forehead touch hers. "And you?" she asked, looking up at him, curious to hear his answer. He always seemed so calm, so confident; she wished she had a little of that.

"It was fitful," he admitted. "I kept thinking to myself…'this will be my last night, sleeping in this bed'."

Sybil's eyes went wide at his words, and her arms clutched him just a little tighter, as if afraid that some unseen force was suddenly going to appear and take him away from her.

He must have sensed her fear, because he was quick to reassure her, his lips kissing her brow again as he rubbed soothing circles along her spine. "I won't be far; just down at the Grantham Arms."

"I know," she sighed, trying to put on a brave smile, inwardly kicking herself at how silly she was behaving. "I know, it's just…" Just what? It wasn't as if the two of them had been parted before. But the difference, she supposed, was that during those other times, whether she was away in London or York, she always had the knowledge that when she returned to Downton, Tom would be there. And it was a terrifying prospect to realize that after they made their announcement, he wouldn't be returning to his cottage, but leaving the grounds entirely. Leaving her to face Downton, alone.

"Sybil…" his voice was a like a beacon, calling her back from the darkness of her anxiety. "I'm not going anywhere without you," he told her, his hands rising to hold her face, while his eyes bore into hers. "Even if the entire village gathered with torches and pitchforks, nothing, not even the King of England himself, is making me leave without you, do you understand?"

She couldn't help but smile at this and nod her head. She saw the seriousness in his eyes and she knew that he meant it. Still, she felt it was important to let him know her feelings on the matter. "But if…if someone—" And by someone, she sadly meant her father. "If someone tries to make you leave, going so far as to…as to threaten that they'll have you arrested…please…please promise me that you'll telephone the house? Or find some way to get word to me? Because I don't care if it's an hour before the wedding, I will leave at that very moment."

He gazed down at her, his fingers tenderly running along her cheek, the look in his eyes a mixture of both love and tender wonder. _I can be strong for him_, she thought to herself. _I can be strong for the both of us. _She could…and she would.

"Well, let's hope it doesn't come to that," he sighed, offering her a smile, although she could tell it was a sad one. Oh dear, she didn't mean to depress him with her worries. She wanted him confident again; she needed that calm confidence from him.

"Do you remember what you said to me, back when we were exchanging letters while I was in London?"

His eyes widened at the memory and a small smile began to curl at the corners of his lips. "I remember a great many things I said to you," he chuckled.

She laughed as well. "Well, one thing I remember was how you told me you would scale the Tower of London's walls, should I be arrested and locked away for giving a 'less than stellar' curtsey."

She grinned as his rich, warm laughter filled the space around them. "Aye, I do remember saying that, and I meant it…" he smiled and pressed his forehead against hers again. "And I mean it still; I'll scale walls and slay dragons if I must. I'll let no one keep us apart."

Sybil took in a deep, calming breath at his words. They warmed her heart, and it was exactly what she needed to hear on this day. _Nothing is going to keep us apart,_ she repeated in her mind. _When he goes to Ireland, so will I. No matter what they try to do to keep us apart, it won't work. I will not give him up._

"Well," she murmured, blushing and grinning up at him. "If it comes to that, I'll be right by your side, fighting that dragon with you."

He grinned then, his fingers tilting her chin up. "I'd expect no less," he murmured, just before his lips touched hers.

Sybil sighed at the memory of that morning, closing her eyes and letting it wash over her all over again. She had been doing that all day, just when it seemed that the anxiety was too much, she would force herself to pause and think back to being in Tom's arms, remembering his promises that he would not leave without her, that he would wait for her at the Grantham Arms, and should anything happen, he would get word to her right away. He was her strength, and she was his. _I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine._

And tonight, he would be standing beside her when they made their announcement. He would be right there, facing her family as they told all of them their plans and intentions. They were not asking for permission, because they did not need it. They were both adults, capable of making their own decisions, and this was a decision that the both of them had made a long time ago.

She only hoped that they would accept it, even if they didn't like it.

She paused in her pacing and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She had purposefully chosen to wear the same frock she had worn the night she had slipped into the garage to tell Tom that she loved him and he was her ticket. Maybe it was silly, but somehow she prayed that her choice in dinner attire would bring some of its good fortune back, just as it had that night several months ago.

A light knocking on her door turned Sybil's attention away from the mirror. "Come in!" she squeaked, rolling her eyes at how strained her voice sounded.

She was happy to see the face that the knock belonged to. "Oh there you are!" Edith grinned, slipping into the room. "Good, you still being here means I have the perfect excuse not to go down just yet," she sighed with relief. "I've been in the drawing room all day, trying to organize and arrange the wedding presents against the far window, and I fear if I am seen downstairs first, either Mama or Granny will put me to work again!"

Sybil tried to smile, but found the task somewhat difficult. Things were quite hectic, as the wedding was only three days away. In truth, she had avoided venturing downstairs as much as possible, knowing she would be recruited by her family in some way to help with Saturday's preparations. Under "normal" circumstances, she wouldn't mind helping in the slightest, but considering the fact that her own wedding would be taking place in matter of weeks, a wedding that wouldn't have half the pomp and circumstance that this one had (which was perfectly fine, she didn't need a large wedding or an endless array of gifts on display) but nevertheless…she knew that if she found herself in the midst of all that joy and excitement, she would soon bring everyone's spirits down. _Her_ wedding, _her_ marriage, would not be the sort where the friends of her family would send their congratulations and well-wishes for a prosperous future. No; rather, they would treat it like a funeral, offering condolences to her parents for "losing" their daughter.

"Sybil?" Edith's voice brought her out of her thoughts once again.

"Sorry," she mumbled. "Yes, I can understand why you want to avoid the drawing room—although you know you don't have to do it; don't let Mama or Granny or anybody else bully you—"

"Oh I don't mind, really," Edith sighed, putting on a smile. "I grumble here and there, but only because it reminds me of what I'll never have."

Sybil's frown deepened at Edith's words. This wasn't the first time her sister had spoken thusly, but it bothered her, both the despondency and the cool casualness of her acceptance. "Edith," Sybil spoke firmly, reaching out and taking her sister's hand in hers. "You don't have to settle for this, you know; meaning this life."

Edith frowned. "Sybil—"

But she wasn't finished. "I'm serious! Don't sit and wait; go and find what you want! If that's a career in London, take it! If that's marriage and family, then don't wait around for some prince charming to come riding up to the house, go and seek him, yourself! Have both!"

"Oh that's easy for you to say," Edith groaned. "You, the nurse whose about to marry the chauffeur."

Now it was Sybil's turn to frown. "I _am_ about to marry him," she stated firmly. "And soon; very soon, God willing," she told her sister. "And…and…and he's not a chauffeur, or after tonight, he won't be anymore."

Edith's brow had furrowed the more Sybil went on. "What? What do you mean after tonight he won't be a chauffeur anymore?"

_Tell her. She already knows so much and she said she would support you and she has helped…_

But it didn't feel right to tell Edith and not say anything to Mary. This was news she wanted to share with _both_ of her sisters. And despite Mary's demeanor, despite the way she had purposefully tried to keep her and Tom apart after their botched attempt at eloping, her sister had kept her promise, she had never said anything to their father. _She _is_ on our side,_ Sybil thought. _She's just not prepared to admit it yet, but truly…she _must_ be on our side._

And the only way to guarantee that was to say something _now_, before dinner, before everything was revealed.

"Is Mary still in her room?" she asked, turning and looking at Edith anxiously.

Edith looked confused. "I…I think so, I mean Anna was going to her after she finished with me, but...Sybil, what did you mean Bran—I mean, Tom, won't be a chauffeur anymore?"

Sybil simply grabbed her sister's hand and began dragging her off towards Mary's room, where just as Edith had predicted, she was with Anna, who was fixing her hair.

"Well, good evening to you as well," Mary greeted from her mirror, seeing both Sybil and Edith enter. Edith looked more confused than ever about what was going on, while Sybil's breathing had quickened a great deal.

Mary frowned. "Darling?" she said, looking at Sybil's reflection. "You look rather pale, are you feeling alright?"

Sybil glanced over at Edith, who had seated herself on the chaise opposite Mary's bed, and who was also looking anxious to hear what Sybil had to say. Her eyes flew back then to Mary's, and even to Anna's who was standing and trying to look as if she were too busy fixing Mary's hair than to be paying attention to anything else. However the housemaid did catch Sybil's eye, and Sybil saw that Anna recognized quite quickly what this was all going to be about.

_Tell them. Tell them all!_ "I'm marrying Tom!"

Silence suddenly filled the room, save for Edith's gasp. Clearly her sister never thought the secret would go beyond the two of them. Poor Anna looked unsure on what to do, whereas Mary was staring back at Sybil with wide eyes that just seemed to be growing wider with each passing second.

"I'm marrying Tom," Sybil repeated, after taking a deep breath. "I'm telling the three of you now, because…because I'm going to tell everybody else tonight."

"WHAT!?" Mary gasped, turning her head so quickly, Anna nearly stumbled backwards. She quickly apologized to the maid before fixing her eyes on Sybil in a combination of astonishment and horror. "What do you mean you're going to be telling everybody _tonight?"_

Sybil swallowed and lifted her head. "I mean exactly what it sounds like. Tonight…I'm going to finally do what all of you advised me to do several months back; to be forward, to tell Mama and Papa and Granny…and I suppose Matthew and Lavinia as well…that I _am_ going to marry Tom."

Silence filled the room once again. Sybil stood there, her eyes going back and forth from one face to the other, gauging reactions. Edith looked surprised, Anna looked nervous, and Mary…well, it wasn't anger or disappointment that Sybil thought she would see in the eyes of her eldest sister, but…confusion.

She looked…confused, an emotion Sybil had not expected to see.

Mary had turned back to face the mirror of her dressing table, and Anna softly cleared her throat before resuming her work on Mary's hair, and the silence became awkward and Sybil didn't know if she should say something again, but before she could, Mary's confused eyes met hers in the mirror, and finally broke the silence, asking, "But why announce it tonight, all of a sudden?"

All of a sudden. Oh Lord, how Sybil wanted to laugh at that.

All of a sudden? After practically three months? Three months, on top of three years when Tom had first proposed to her in York? Three years on top of the near seven where their feelings began as a deep friendship, only to kindle and grow until finally they both realized that they were in love with each other?

_All of a sudden?_

There was nothing "sudden" about her and Tom's relationship.

"He's got a job at a newspaper," Sybil explained, choosing to ignore her sister's remark. "He heard today; it's a real chance!" A slight white lie; better for them to think he had received this news today, and not yesterday. They didn't need to know every detail…or how much planning the both of them had gone through to prepare for their departure.

She was full of so much pride when she told her sisters. She felt so much pride for Tom, for what he had accomplished after all the months he had been looking for something. She had always believed he could do whatever he set his mind on, and clearly he had proven her right, not just with finding a job with a paper, but also in winning her heart.

But her sisters weren't aware of that. They didn't know about the hard work he had done, the long hours he had spent reading and taking notes to better his writing, after working in the garage all day. They didn't know about the typewriter in his cottage, or how long it took him to learn, all on his own, how to use it. They didn't know what this felt like, this sense of accomplishment after so much hard work. How could they when it was not something that people like themselves, especially women of their class, encountered? So instead of sharing in her enthusiasm, or understanding her pride, or even looking impressed, Mary seemed to all but sneer, "Let him go to Dublin and then you can use the calm to consider."

It was a dismissal. A patronizing one as well, and it boiled Sybil's blood to the point where she had to turn away and look someplace else, anyplace else, or she would lash out and say something she would later regret, such as telling Mary, _"not everyone chooses to sacrifice love and happiness for wealth, power, and position!"_ but she didn't. Although it was _so_ tempting…

"Mary…" Edith's voice suddenly filled the tense silence, and Sybil turned her eyes to her sister, who for perhaps the first time, found herself in the odd position that Sybil often played, as referee. "Mary…" Edith repeated, looking at Sybil with a bit of hesitance. "…Doesn't want you to be trapped before you're completely sure."

Sybil stared at sister in shocked horror at her statement. Upon later reflection, she knew that Edith was simply trying to soften Mary's words and keep the peace, however in that moment, Sybil felt as if the one family member she could depend upon for support had betrayed her with that statement.

"BUT I AM SURE!" she bellowed, glaring at Edith, before turning and glaring at Mary's reflection. "HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO SAY IT?!"

Why was it so difficult for people to understand? Especially Mary! This was not a new conversation; the two of them had had some very passionate arguments and debates about the future and what Sybil wanted to do with her life. Couldn't she see that Tom was a part of that? Couldn't she understand that when she had decided to become a nurse, when she had shown that she had an interest in politics and went canvassing, couldn't EVERYONE see that the life Sybil Crawley wanted was NOT the life she had been born into?

"Anna," she desperately moaned, turning to the blonde housemaid. Surely, if anyone could make Mary see reason, help both of her sisters to understand, it would be her. "Anna, tell them."

Once again, upon reflection she would realize that what she did to poor Anna in that moment hadn't been fair. She had put Anna on the spot right in front of Mary, and naturally Anna's hands were tied in what she could argue and say.

However, the housemaid did feel pity for Sybil, and Sybil thought she saw a light of admiration and understanding in the other woman's eyes, despite the words which she spoke.

"Lady Mary is right…" she mumbled. Sybil felt like the earth had been taken out from under her feet, and like Alice, she was plummeting down the rabbit hole, all by herself. "It's a very big thing to give up your whole world…" Anna continued, her eyes holding Sybil's gaze, trying to sound like the voice of caution, although it was gentle and nowhere near as condescending as Mary's earlier comment had been.

"Thank you!" Mary groaned, fixing her gaze on Sybil. "Listen to her if you won't listen to me."

Sybil ground her teeth, doing everything she could to fight the feelings of dejection that were coursing through her. Oh God, this was not how she had envisioned it being. These were her sisters! And she had always thought of Anna as a good friend. If they were all against her, how would it be later when she stood before her parents? Before Granny?

"But I'm not giving up my world!" she declared, stopping herself just short of stomping her foot, especially as she watched Mary roll up her gloves in a condescending manner, not bothering to look her in the eye.

_Stay calm, remain calm, do not give anyone reason to think of you as a petulant child._

She stood her ground, closing her eyes briefly and recalling Tom's arms around her, recalling the strength she always felt when he held her. "If they want to give me up, that's their affair!" she growled, swallowing the emotion that bubbled in her throat. "I'm perfectly happy to carry on being friends with everyone!"

And she meant it. She meant EVERY word. And even though he wasn't there in that room with her just now, she felt him in her heart, and knew that he would be proud of her.

Mary sighed wearily and turned her eyes once more to her. "Married to the chauffeur?"

"_Darling, darling, don't be such a baby; this isn't fairyland. What, you marry the chauffeur and we would all come around for tea?"_

That conversation still haunted her and filled Sybil with such rage at what she had felt then and was truly beginning to believe was her sister's purposeful short-sightedness.

Was Mary purposefully refusing to see Tom as anything else? Didn't she understand that when Sybil had made her statement, that if others chose to give her up…she was _including_ members of her own family?

Oh, if they were alone, Sybil would have it out right then and there with her_. I should have said something at the beginning,_ she realized. _I shouldn't have to hide my feelings; _I'm_ not the Crawley sister who is afraid of facing her feelings!_

"Yes," Sybil spat, glaring at her sister. If Mary thought she could shame her by referring to Tom as "the chauffeur", then she didn't know her at all. It seemed that no one in her family knew her…

"Anyway, he's a journalist now, which sounds better for Granny!" she finished, disgusted by the whole conversation. This didn't bode well for later…

With an exasperated sigh she more or less flopped down onto Mary's bed, her hands gripping her gloves, flopping down onto her lap in an effort to keep herself from losing her temper as best she could.

_Well, no sense in beating around the bush, I suppose. _

"We're going to tell Papa tonight," she declared, waiting to see if anyone caught her meaning.

Edith did. "We?" she glanced over at Mary before looking back at Sybil nervously. "You mean…you _and_ Branson?"

Mary clearly caught on as well, because she froze and stared back at Sybil, along with Anna, whose expression looked very worried, no doubt for the soon-to-be ex-chauffeur whom Sybil knew was a dear friend to the head housemaid.

Sybil lifted her chin, swallowing her nerves down and looking at each and every one of them in the eye. "He's coming in after dinner," she announced, feeling no shame whatsoever.

For the first time since she had told her sisters about her intentions for the evening, they looked as if they believed her. Or rather, the look they wore was similar to the one she had been feeling all day.

This is happening. Tonight, everything will change…

"But…" Edith murmured, her voice soft yet full of apprehension. "But what will Papa do?"

"I imagine he'll call the police," Mary muttered, although unlike before, there wasn't anything sarcastic or patronizing in her tone.

She was being serious. Now, all of them were being very serious.

Sybil took a deep breath, and without another word, rose to her feet. "I'm going down," she simply said to them, not looking anyone in the eye, just lifting her head and holding it high, before turning and leaving the room without a backwards glance.

If they continued talking after she had left, they waited until she was well out of earshot.

_Will Mary never see? Has Edith gone back on her word? What about Anna? _

It was too much to comprehend, and she was in danger of crumpling right there on the staircase and losing herself to the tears that stung the back of her eyes.

Alone; she had never felt more alone in her own family as she did right now. The two people she thought she could turn to and depend upon no matter what…

Both of them had simply stared at her in shock, neither sharing her joy or exuberance over the news about Tom's new job, neither offering any comforting words of support or even saying that they would greatly miss her when she left for Ireland; neither one of them ready to _believe her_, that what she was saying WAS going to happen…until she had mentioned that Tom was going to be coming to the house after dinner.

And even then they assumed the worst. Even then, they sounded more concerned for their father's emotional health upon learning the truth, than their own sister's future happiness!

_It's just like I told Gwen,_ she realized, unable to hold the tears back any longer. _She is my sister now; she's been more of a sister to me during all of this than either of my sisters!_

"Sybil? Is that you?"

Her grandmother's voice filled the hall just below, and Sybil desperately wiped her cheeks, doing the best she could to remove all traces of the tears she had just shed. "Yes, Granny!" she answered, trying to sound cheerful, quickly straightening herself and continuing down the stairs to greet her grandmother.

"Good heavens, what were you doing on the stairs?" her grandmother asked.

"Oh I…I lost my earring," Sybil lied, still forcing her smile as she leaned in and kissed her grandmother's cheeks. "Shall we?" She didn't really want to linger in the hall for Mary and Edith to enter. She offered her arm as one for her grandmother to lean on, and thankfully her grandmother agreed.

"Ah, thank my dear. I'm afraid I'm feeling a bit worn out this evening, I'm not sure," she sighed, leaning her weight on her granddaughter.

Sybil's eyes widened at this, and she suddenly began recalling her awful dream. She looked at the older woman with worried eyes, tempted to ask her if she was feeling any sort of numbness in her left arm, of any sort of discomfort over her chest, but they had entered the drawing room at that point, and were greeted by her parents, as well as Matthew and Lavinia, and the questions died in Sybil's throat.

Mary and Edith soon joined them, and Sybil was not surprised to see that they too were wearing false smiles as they greeted everyone. Yes, the Crawley girls were good at play-acting. They went into the dining room, and thus began the final act before everything would change.

The calm before the storm, if you will.

"Sybil dear, are you feeling well?"

She looked up at her mother, who looked a little concerned and was clearly noticing that she hadn't touched a great deal of food on her plate.

"I…yes, Mama, I um…I'm just not that hungry, to be honest."

Her mother frowned at this news. Sybil didn't mean to worry her, especially based after all the horrible stories that were being spread about Spanish Flu. Her mother turned her head and seemed to notice that both Mary and Edith were in a similar state, hardly touching the food that was on their plates, looking back and forth between each other nervously, before glancing at their youngest sister.

"Oh dear," her mother sighed. "Did the three of you have some sort of 'little picnic' together?"

She spoke sternly, but Sybil saw her mother smile as old memories from the Crawley girls' childhood filled her head.

"Little picnic?" Lavinia asked.

Cora nodded. "When the girls were little, sometimes they would sneak treats from the kitchen, or take extra scones or sandwiches during tea, and store them away for a 'picnic' that they would proceed to have in their rooms later in the evening. If I recall, sometimes you would build a tent out of bed sheets," her mother laughed, smiling at Sybil before turning her gaze to Mary and Edith.

The older two laughed, while Sybil forced a smile. Despite the fond childhood memory, she doubted she would be laughing much tonight.

Her mother's story launched others, her father and grandmother joining in and sharing them with Matthew and Lavinia. Sybil was grateful for the distraction, and somehow made it through the rest of the meal without her mother or anyone else remarking how she hadn't eaten much, if anything, after that little observation.

"I think we'll just go through with you," her father announced when dinner was over. Matthew nodded his head, and the two men rose along with the rest of them, and Sybil followed, avoiding Mary and Edith's worried and somewhat accusatory glances, as they paraded from the dining room to the drawing room, where Carson was already pouring wine, port, and brandy. Oh how Sybil wanted one of those right now.

She sat, perched on the end of a chaise, with Edith immediately next to her. Her mother sat in a chair just to Sybil's right and continued speaking to Lavinia about who knows what. Her father was engaged in some sort of discussion with Matthew, and both Mary and Edith seemed to be doing their part in keeping the conversation calm and happy with either her grandmother or one of their parents, should it ever shift and the focus return to her once again.

_This is maddening! Of all the waiting, _this_ is the worst!_ She felt like she could scream—like she would scream at any second! She wanted to get up and run, far away from that room, far away from everyone! Which immediately depressed her because she knew that after her news was shared with everyone, there _was_ a horrible chance that she never would see her family again, that they wouldn't want to have anything to do with her after this night. Oh God…at the very least, she wanted to cry; to sit down somewhere and curl up into a ball and sob. She felt cold and numb, she felt completely and utterly alone in that room of pointless conversation. She was about to face her greatest challenge, she was about to take a stand for her beliefs, she was about to announce her decisions for the future and life that she wanted, a future and life that went against everything Society had taught her family, and she was about to do this with no support, and barely any understanding, and she honestly didn't know if she had the strength to face the arguments that she knew would come—

The drawing room doors opened, and Sybil felt her heart leap into her throat as she lifted her eyes along with everyone else, to the Irishman who had entered, dressed in a fine, if somewhat mismatched suit, looking very handsome, and whose eyes locked immediately onto hers.

"I'm here…" he breathed, a smile curling just slightly at the corners of his mouth, his gaze never leaving hers.

She had been wrong.

She was about to face her greatest challenge…but not by herself.


	158. Do Not Go Gentle

_HERE IT IS! The long-awaited "confrontation in the drawing room" scene! I won't say too much as it's a long one, but I will say that I tried to tap into/make mention of several things that we as viewers learned in S3, that sort of seemed to come out of nowhere (at least to me), so I tried to *hint* at those things (or some of those things) in this chapter. Hopefully you'll understand as you read :o) WOW! Thank you to everyone, YOU LOVELY PEOPLE pushed me to get this chapter written asap, and I hope it doesn't disappoint. Thanks again for reading as always!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Fifty-Eight<strong>

_10:24pm_

Despite the myriad of angry questions and raised voices that followed him in his wake, the sound that Tom heard above all others was the loud echo of the drawing room doors shutting firmly behind him.

He always hated that sound, of a door shutting. It was both ominous and…final. That was what he didn't like about it, how "final" it sounded. And considering the "conversation" that had just taken place inside Downton Abbey's drawing room, Tom did not like the feeling he associated with that sound one bit.

But not so much for himself. If this was only about him, he would brush the whole thing off without a second's thought.

But it wasn't about him, or it wasn't _only_ about him. His eyes moved forward, to the woman who was walking several brisk paces ahead of him, clearly fuming, judging by both the way she moved and the mutterings he could hear just under her breath.

He sighed and lowered his eyes to the ground. _Well…that went swimmingly, didn't it?_

* * *

><p><em>9:17pm<em>

Everything was gone. His trunk had been packed, and he had already taken it down to his room at the Grantham Arms. He informed the innkeeper that he would be staying till at least Monday, possibly Tuesday. The innkeeper didn't think that would be a problem, considering that the only major event that was taking place in the village was the wedding for the future Earl of Grantham.

With his new room paid for and his things settled, he returned to the house, greeting Mr. Pratt at the garage who he had made arrangements with to be the one to drive Old Lady Grantham back and forth for the evening. It was just as well, of course; he doubted she would want to see his face anytime soon after tonight. Pratt took the Rolls-Royce, which Tom was grateful for, as the Renault had always been his favorite car to drive. He took a moment to sit in it, his hands resting on the wheel, smiling as old memories returned of the many drives he had taken throughout the years, especially the drives he had taken with Sybil. He finally forced himself away from the car and returned to the cottage, where he walked around and inspected every corner, making sure he had left nothing behind.

It was strange, to say the least. His mind went back to that spring day in 1913, nearly seven years ago, when he first arrived at Downton. He remembered Mr. Carson showing him the garage and cottage. He remembered gazing at the cars in admiration, as well as being impressed that his Lordship had installed electric lighting in both the garage and the cottage. He remembered thinking at the time, "this place seems nice".

Little did he know that the man to whom he had greeted in the Downton library, who given him permission to read any of his books, who struck him upon first meeting as a good man to work for…was also the father of his future bride.

Little did he know that the beautiful girl he saw across the hall, only for the briefest of moments before the Downton butler whisked him outside to see his quarters…was going to be his future wife.

Tom couldn't help but wonder if he had the chance to go back in time, and tell the man he had been in 1913 everything that would transpire by this time in 1919, would he have believed any of it?

The sky was getting dark. No doubt the dressing gong had rung a long time ago. His mind immediately wandered to Sybil, as it so often did. What was she doing right now? More importantly, how was she feeling? His heart ached for her, and he wished there was some way he could ease her anxiety. Her nerves were clearly getting the better of her, as he recalled the way her body trembled when he held her that morning, trying to reassure her everything was going to be alright. Oh God, how he wished he could make this easier for her. How he wished he could wave some sort of magic wand and guarantee that her family would accept their news. He was still hopeful, still confident that with time, they would come around and accept them, but he was realistic enough to know that they would be shocked…and more than likely, their first reaction would be negative.

With a resolute sigh, he changed out of his livery, folding it and placing it at the end of his bed. He put on his best suit, smoothed his jacket, straightened his tie, and combed his hair. He gave himself one last look in the small mirror on the opposite wall, before closing his eyes and crossing himself. Without another look back, he left the cottage for good and walked across the gravel drive to the servant's entrance.

Mrs. Patmore was busy making supper for the rest of the staff, while Daisy and the other kitchen maids fluttered about. Thomas was standing off to the side, sulking by the looks of things. O'Brien or Mrs. Hughes where nowhere to be seen, and Bates was already seated at the table. The valet lifted his eyes at seeing Tom and his brow furrowed slightly, no doubt noticing his attire. "Mr. Branson?"

Tom turned to the valet and gave the man a small smile. "Do you know how long they've been in the dining room?"

Bates frowned in confusion. "His Lordship and the family? I would say…at least an hour, why?"

Should he say something? After all, it would be all the gossip no doubt by the end of the night. However he was distracted by a flash of movement just over his shoulder, and turned to see a familiar blonde head briskly passing the Servant's Hall, freezing when her eyes met Tom's. "Mr. Branson?" Anna gasped, looking shocked at the sight of him.

_She knows._ Tom could tell, just by the way her face paled and her eyes widened at the sight of him. _Sybil must have said something to her. _

"Have they finished dinner?" he asked, holding her gaze and speaking softly.

Anna bit her lip and glanced over at her fiancée who looked just as confused as he had the previous day when Tom had pulled her aside and asked her to go and find Sybil.

"Nearly," she finally whispered. "Mr. Carson asked me to come down to let Mrs. Patmore know; they'll have moved into the drawing room by the time you..." she paused then, and Tom's suspicions that she knew his reasons for being there were all the more confirmed.

He nodded his head, before giving the head housemaid a thankful smile. "Well…" he took a deep breath, fixing his eyes on the stairs that would lead him up. "It was a pleasure working with you, Miss Smith."

He turned his gaze back to Anna and smiled at her, holding out his hand for her to shake.

Anna looked down at it and then lifted her eyes once more to meet his, tears clearly shining in their dark depths. "Oh Mr. Branson…" she gasped, the emotion bubbling out and without hesitation, throwing her arms around him and giving him a good, fierce hug, no doubt causing several eyebrows to rise in question, including those of her fiancée.

Tom smiled and returned the hug, grateful for the woman's friendship during his time at Downton Abbey, and wishing her all the joy for a happy future.

"Good luck," Anna whispered, releasing him and stepping away.

Tom smiled at her, grateful for the wish and nodded his head in thanks. "The same to you," he murmured, glancing over at Bates and giving him a warm smile as well. He turned then, and with a resolute sigh, began climbing the stairs, and just as he left his cottage, he didn't pause to look back once.

With determined steps he moved, until the door that led to the Downton drawing room was in sight. He had passed the dining room, its doors opened and several maids inside, including Jane, helping to clear away the dishes. Yes, they had moved forward, just as Anna had predicted, and they were all inside, including his Lordship and Mr. Matthew.

_Now or never_, he thought to himself. _This is it. From here on out, your life will never be the same. From this moment forward, you and Sybil will truly be each other's family, no matter what._

The thought caused his chest to swell with pride, and despite the nervousness he was feeling, his love for the woman who lay just beyond those doors was what propelled him forward, and without pausing, he walked right up to those doors and pushed them forward, entering and ignoring all the other faces that had paused in whatever conversations they were keeping, his eyes only focused on hers.

"I'm here…"

* * *

><p><em>PRESENT<em>

She did not stop walking. She kept marching forward, her footsteps loud, and her heels leaving a distinct sound on the polished floors of the great hall. Tom followed, wondering how far she would go. Judging by the brisk pace she was setting, he wouldn't be surprised if chose to march right out that door and down into the village. Who knows? Perhaps she was prepared to march all the way to Liverpool this very night, and not stop until they were onboard a ship that would carry them home?

He didn't say anything to her, he didn't call out to her, he didn't try to make her stop; he simply followed and watched and listened as she let her rage and anger course through her after what had just happened in the drawing room.

"_He won't allow it_…how dare he say that to me!" she muttered, her hands balling into fists, and Tom held his breath as he was certain for a moment she was going to lash out and break something!

She didn't; instead her fists pounded against her hips as she released a furious grunt. "He thinks _I'm_ the one throwing away her life?" she muttered again. "I'm the only one who KNOWS what she wants! _And_ who she loves!"

She resumed her marching and she didn't stop until she finally reached the doors of the house, pausing just long enough to put her hands against their heavy wood, before letting out an angry grunt and pushing them open with such force, Tom was sure they would smack the sides of the house.

She didn't move. She stood there, staring out into the night, her back to him, her shoulders rising and falling from heavy breathing, her hands balled into fists at her sides. He didn't move either, he just watched her, holding his breath as he waited, waiting to see when it would be appropriate to approach…

And he had his answer when he saw her shoulders sag, and her head drop forward, before her body began to shake and the sounds of sobbing could be heard echoing off the opened door frame.

He moved then to her side, and he sighed with relief that she didn't fight him when he quietly offered his arms as a sanctuary. She slumped against him, her fists now braced against his chest, her face burrowed against throat, her tears, hot and angry, coating his skin, her body shaking as she sobbed; he didn't say anything, he simply held her. That's what she needed right now. The time for words would come later. Right now, she needed peace from her sorrow, and if his embrace could offer her a little of that, then that was all that mattered.

"I…" she tried to speak despite the tears. "I…I'm sorry…"

"Shhh," he whispered, turning his head so his lips could graze her hair.

"No…no, no I am," she insisted, lifting her tear-stained face away from his body so that she could look into his eyes. "I'm sorry Tom, I'm so sorry for…for letting my fear and…and my anxieties almost stop me…"

His brow furrowed, unsure at first what she meant, but then thinking back to when he first arrived in the drawing room, and how nervous she looked…

* * *

><p><em>9:31pm<em>

She was all that mattered; she was all that he noticed. Yes there were other people in the room, but his eyes were only focused on her. And the first thing he thought when he entered was "she's wearing the same dress; the dress she wore when she came to me in January." Had she done that on purpose? He hoped so. It caused the corners of his mouth to curl into a smile.

She looked so nervous, and he could only imagine what had been raging through her mind during that entire dinner, during those minutes she was sitting there, knowing he would arrive, waiting for him to arrive, but no doubt feeling tremendously burdened with the secret they were keeping and wondering how it would all turn out when the truth was finally told. So he said the first thing that came to his mind when he held met her gaze, hoping his words would ease some of that burden and remind her that she wasn't alone.

"I'm here…"

"So I can see…"

The world came crashing back then. The haze of only Sybil cleared, and suddenly all those other faces with their confused expressions at his sudden appearance became blaringly obvious, like the sun piercing through one's eyelids after waking up from a night of heavy drinking. Tom couldn't help but look at his Lordship with both caution and disdain, mainly because there was a slight patronizing tone to the man's voice at seeing him there. Thankfully Sybil rose to her feet, taking long, quick steps and joining him by his side, however the anxious expression she wore when he first entered the drawing room hadn't left.

"I don't think this is such a good idea. We mustn't worry Granny," she whispered under her breath.

"You've asked me to come and I've come." His voice was firm and determined. When he had seen her that morning in the garage, and saw the anxiety on her face, he was tempted to offer that they wait until after the wedding, not wanting to bring her further distress. However, he quickly banished that thought, because he realized that he wasn't doing her or himself any favors by prolonging things, in fact it would make the anxiety worse. She would be just as nervous a week from now. No, he was here, standing by her sound, and even if he sounded pushy, he had a feeling that Sybil would later appreciate that assertiveness, rather than codling her fears. So when the dowager countess asked what was going on, making some sort of reference about all of them going through the looking glass, he stood straight and tall and said in a louder voice than necessary, "You're grandmother has much right to know as anybody else."

"Why don't I find that reassuring?" the Grantham matriarch murmured warily, looking back and forth between him and her granddaughter.

* * *

><p><em>PRESENT<em>

"I don't know what I would have done without you…" she whispered, resting her cheek against his body. "I'd probably still be standing there like a statue, gaping into some sort of void."

He didn't like the way she was speaking about herself, and his hands gently cupped her face, coaxing it away so he could look into her eyes, all the while his fingers brushing tiny wisps of brown hair away from her eyes and behind her ears.

"You'd have found your voice; you always do."

"Not without your encouragement, though," she sighed, feeling a little disappointed with herself.

"Sybil…" he shook his head. "It takes great courage to stand up before one's enemies; but even greater courage to stand up before the one's you love. And you _did_ do that, my darling; don't you remember? It was _you_ who told them…" he murmured, looking upon her with such deep love and admiration.

He didn't say it, because he didn't want to sound like he was patronizing her. But he hoped and prayed that she knew how very, very proud he was of her in that moment…

* * *

><p><em>9:40pm<em>

Tom turned and looked down at Sybil, whose eyes were fixed on a piece of furniture directly opposite of her. She was trembling, and swallowing nervous lumps down her throat. She looked so pale and unsure, reminding him more of a frightened, cornered rabbit than the brave woman he knew so well.

_You can do this, love. You're not alone. I'm here, with you…_

A gasp went up around the room as he did the forbidden; reaching out and taking her hand in his.

"Here now Branson, what is the meaning of this?" Lord Grantham demanded, his voice rising both in volume and agitation, especially after the sight of Tom taking his youngest daughter's hand and entwining their fingers together.

He ignored the man. Once again, he ignored everyone and kept his eyes focused on the woman beside him, tenderly squeezing her hand and praying that the touch alone could pass strength from his being to hers.

A quick intake of breath was heard, and Sybil slowly lifted her eyes to his.

_I love you. I know you can do this. I have faith…_

"Branson, I demand an answer! You barge in here—"

"I asked him to come, Papa," Sybil answered, surprising everyone by speaking up. She was still trembling, but Tom could see the fire he knew so well slowly starting to kindle. He couldn't help but smile, especially when he felt her hand squeeze his back.

Lord Grantham looked puzzled, as well as suspicious. "_You_ asked him to come here?" he repeated. "Why in heavens name—?"

"Because," Sybil continued, taking a deep breath and giving his hand another squeeze. "Because we have something very important to share with all of you."

"Why do I _still_ not find this reassuring?" her grandmother nervously muttered.

They looked at one another, and he saw her nod her head, and even though she didn't say, he understood the gesture. She squeezed his hand once more before turning and facing the rest of them. "The truth is…Tom and I are in love."

Silence filled the room then; it was so quiet Tom was sure you could hear a pin drop if it fell. He glanced around at all the faces, save Sybil's sisters, who knew the truth already of course, and both of whom were looking down. As for the rest of them, they all looked confused, disbelief clearly the emotion striking them first, before any other.

It was the dowager countess who spoke first. "Who…who is Tom?"

Sybil groaned and rolled her eyes in frustration. "Oh, Granny—!"

"I am, your Ladyship," he answered, biting his tongue and trying not to groan like Sybil, although he had no doubt that like her his face was also glowing red with embarrassment. _We're never people in their eyes, just positions with surnames—_

"Wait, wait…" Lord Grantham interrupted his thoughts, his face still contorted in confusion, his eyes going back and forth between the both of them, still clearly struggling with understanding what had just been said and what was happening. "What…what do you mean you're…'in love'?"

Sybil groaned once again, and Tom could feel the tension growing in her hand. "I mean exactly that, Papa; I couldn't say it plainer!" She turned and looked up at him, her hand now moving to hold his in both. "I love him…and have for many years."

"Years!?" She released his hand and they both turned to see Lady Mary, looking at her sister in a somewhat accusatory manner. "Sybil, you lied to me! You told me that he loved you, but you never said anything about—"

"_You_ knew about this!?" Lord Grantham turned on his eldest daughter, the question laced with accusation as he stared at her, incredulously.

Tom couldn't help but close his eyes and groan. This was all turning into a rather complex mess.

"I…w-well…" Lady Mary stammered, and for the first time in knowing the woman, Tom was amazed at the sight of her being at a loss for words. "I…I had my suspicions—"

"AND YOU DIDN'T THINK TO SAY ANYTHING TO ME?!"

"Robert, please!" Lady Grantham hissed. "Calm down, there's no need to shout!"

But his Lordship was fuming, and Tom braced himself, sensing the fight that was to come. His heart went out to Sybil, hating that she would have to witness this. He knew it wasn't going to be easy, but at the same time he had hoped Lord Grantham would at the very least hear them out, before stating his objections. Still, father or not, he'd not allow the man to upset his fiancée.

* * *

><p><em>PRESENT<em>

"Thank you," she whispered, her fingers playing with the fabric of his suit coat's lapels.

His brow furrowed. "For what, love?"

She looked up at him and he saw a sad, faint smile curl at the corners of her mouth. "For defending my honor."

He closed his eyes and groaned at the memory. He was still trembling at the rage he had felt when Lord Grantham had thrown that accusation in their faces. It was not only an insult to his own honor, but an insult to Sybil's intelligence and decency. They hadn't done anything to feel ashamed of, and Tom knew that every time Sybil kissed him, told him she loved him, and returned his embrace, he knew it was because she wanted to, not because he had somehow manipulated her into doing so.

"Like a knight in shining armor," she giggled, her fingers still playing with the lapels of his jacket.

"More like a squire in a mismatched suit," he sighed.

"I like your suit!" she defended, her fingers fisting around his lapels and pulling him a little closer. "Do not insult my knight, Sir Branson."

"Beggin' your pardon, milady," he apologized, grinning down at her as she continued to pull him closer…

* * *

><p><em>9:53pm<em>

Lord Grantham began to pace back and forth, clearly trying to get his temper under control. He turned and fixed his eyes on Lady Mary once again, pausing to take as calming a breath as he could, before speaking. "What do you mean you knew?" he asked. In all honesty, Tom wasn't sure if perhaps the reason behind Lord Grantham's anger was because something had been kept from him by his eldest daughter, or the fact that his youngest had just declared herself in love with a soon-to-be former servant, and had been in love with him for quite some time.

"I hoped it would blow over!" Lady Mary tried to explain, her voice rather defensive. "I didn't want to split the family when Sybil might still wake up."

Tom swore he felt his jaw crack at the words which the eldest Crawley daughter spat. But he held his tongue, more for Sybil's sake than any other, knowing that she was fond of her older sister.

However, that vow to hold his temper disappeared entirely at the accusation his Lordship laid before his feet.

"And all the time, you've been driving me about, bowing and scraping and seducing my daughter behind my back?"

The pause between Lord Grantham's accusation and Tom's outburst was brief, yet in that moment Tom had never felt such intense anger at the man whom he had always respected as his employer, even if he was a member of an oppressive system to which he disagreed with entirely. Because even though his eyes were fixed on Sybil's father, he could see his fiancée flinch at the _other_ accusation to which he had just thrown out, whether he was aware of it or not. She flinched as if someone had slapped her, and Tom had even heard the soft but distinct intake of breath at the insult. No…no, he was not going to let ANYONE get away with _that!_

"I DON'T BOW AND SCRAPE!" he thundered. Never, in all his years of working for the Earl of Grantham, had he spoken in such a way before. But he didn't care. The second he walked into that room he had ceased being Downton's chauffeur. "And I've not seduced anyone!" he continued, his eyes burning holes into Lord Grantham's head. Everything was red; all he could see was red. "And give your daughter _some credit_ for knowing her own mind," he growled.

Another intake of breath escaped Sybil's lips, and he thought he saw her eyes widen at his defense. But he never lowered his gaze from Lord Grantham's. He stood his ground and glared back, ready to defend both his and Sybil's honor. He may not be able to stop the world from making disgusting, loathsome accusations about the both of them, but he would not allow _her own family_ to think such things.

"How dare you speak to me in that tone! You will leave at once!"

"Oh, Papa!" Sybil groaned in exasperation, but also pleaded for him to stop. However, the Earl of Grantham couldn't seem to wrap his mind around what was happening, even though it had all been laid out before him.

"This is a folly!" he laughed, clearly choosing to look at the situation as nothing more than a joke, rather than face the reality of the situation at hand. "A ridiculous juvenile madness!"

"Sybil, what do you have in mind?"

All eyes turned then to the dowager countess, who Tom was somewhat surprised to see looking genuinely interested in actually hearing what they had to say. _Fancy that…_

"Mama, this is hardly—"

"No, no, she must have something in mind," she interrupted Lord Grantham. "Otherwise she wouldn't have summoned him here tonight."

He glanced down at Sybil, who was still recovering, slightly, from the fight that had just taken place between himself and her father. However, she straightened herself, swallowed her nerves, and gave a thankful nod of her head, before addressing everyone.

"Thank you, Granny," she began. "Yes, we do have a plan. Tom's got a job at a paper," she glanced up at him and despite their audience, he couldn't help but feel his heart lift at the pride he saw in her eyes. For as long as he lived, he would never cease to be amazed at the faith she had always had in him. "I'll stay until after the wedding—I don't want to steal their thunder," she explained, glancing over at Mr. Matthew and Miss Swire. "But after that, I'll go to Dublin."

She finished and there was an awkward and unsure pause that filled the room, only to be broken by Lady Grantham, who gasped, "To live with him? _UNMARRIED!?"_

He didn't realize he was holding his breath until she answered. He couldn't take his eyes off her; she was extraordinary! He could hear her confidence as she calmly answered her Ladyship, "I'll live with his mother while the banns are read," before turning and looking up at him, "And then we'll be married…" she murmured with a smile, her eyes shining with love and pride and he couldn't help but smile back, his heart soaring as she spoke. "And I'll get a job as a nurse," she concluded.

* * *

><p><em>PRESENT<em>

"I wasn't the only knight in that room, you know," he murmured. "In fact I would say you did a far better job defending yourself than I or any man ever could. My brave lady doesn't need a hero to slay her dragons; she's quite capable of slaying them, herself."

He had said the words with hopes to make her smile, however he saw the storm brewing behind her eyes and began to worry if he should have kept his mouth closed about the whole matter.

"Oh Tom…" she groaned, shaking her head as the recent memories of harsh words washed over her. "They had no right—_he_ had no right—to speak to _either of us_ like that," she growled, her anger kindling once more.

"Sybil—"

"No!" she glared up at him and shook her head. "No, they don't deserve any sort of defense, _especially_ from you!" she pushed herself away from him and he sighed has he dropped his arms and watched as she stalked over to door frame, her hand balling into a fist again. "Maybe I should have been plainer; maybe I should have been clearer, although I look back and think 'how'? How could I have been any clearer? I told Papa years ago that I was interested in politics, that I had opinions! That should have been the first clue that I was different, that I would not live the sort of life he lived, that I was not meant for that sort of life!" She threatened to pound her fist against the doorframe, but thankfully didn't. Instead, she began to pace furiously in front of him.

"Before that, even," she continued. "When I was sneaking his old newspapers and asking him questions! BEFORE THAT!" she gasped, "when I was a child, and I would make such a fuss about going to tea parties and playing the role of 'little lady', when all I wanted to do was my favorite tree to read, or play cricket with the boys!"

"You played cricket?"

"YES!" she threw her hands up into the air. "_And_ I was quite good at it, I'll have you know! I never missed a shot, and I could hit just as well as any boy could, but did Papa EVER allow me to play during his silly house vs. village matches? NO! Because 'cricket is a gentleman's game'," she snarled, folding her arms across her chest and seething at the memory.

He knew she was angry, but at the same time he couldn't help but smile at the image of his sweet Sybil, holding a cricket bat and sending a ball sailing with her hit. He never cared for the game himself; thought it "too English", personally (and far too posh). The only "village vs. house" match that he had seen had been during his first year at Downton, in 1913 (all others were canceled because of the War). His Lordship had plenty of players, so Tom hadn't been asked to be on the house team. It was just as well, he would have felt compelled to play for the village, as that was the team of the "every man". In fact he had secretly rooted for the village during that game (and was quite happy when they won). But even then, he knew he would have been cheering for Sybil, had she been allowed to play.

"But that's beside the point!" Sybil stomped, her hands now going to her hips as she turned and glared out at the night sky once more. "I was prepared for his…his objection, his displeasure," she groaned. "But…but to speak to me as if…as if…" she was fuming, and she let out an exasperated shriek as she kicked at some pebbles near the doorway. "I'M NOT A CHILD!" she all but shouted. "I AM A GROWN WOMAN WHO _CAN_ MAKE HER OWN DECISIONS!"

"I know that, love," he murmured, hoping he could calm her anger, just a little. "And after the way you spoke tonight, defending your choices, and explaining to everyone so perfectly what our plans are for the future…there's no way anyone could think that you are incapable of doing just that."

She sighed. "I tried to be brave—"

"And you were—you _are_," he reverently told her, before moving closer and holding his hands out to her. "I meant it when I said you were a knight; my knight in blue harem pants."

Despite the seething anger beneath her skin, Sybil couldn't help but laugh at his words, which made him smile, loving the rich, warm sound. She also took his hands and he grinned, squeezing them and pulling her closer, wrapping his arms around her again, looking down at his beautiful knight in such love and admiration…

* * *

><p><em>10:16pm<em>

"Well, what does your mother make of this?" Old Lady Grantham asked, turning her eyes and now directing the conversation to him. It only seemed fair; she had heard Sybil's side and now wanted his.

Tom sighed, doing his best to suppress the groan that was in his throat as he recalled his mother's letter. "If you must know, she thinks we're very foolish."

"Oh," she replied, nodding her head at his answer. "So at least we have something in common."

"I WON'T ALLOW IT!" Lord Grantham shouted, clearly not caring if every member of staff and any nearby neighbors heard him scream. "I WILL NOT ALLOW MY DAUGHTER TO THROW AWAY HER LIFE!"

He was prepared to step in and shout back a retort, but he didn't have to, and really, the one person who needed to take such a stand against her father was the very person to whom Lord Grantham believed he was "defending".

"You can posture all you like, Papa, it won't make any difference!" Sybil shouted, her rage beginning pour forth from what Tom could hear and see.

Lord Grantham took a threatening step towards them, before lowering his voice and muttering, "Oh yes it will…" however it was weak and empty threat, because in the end, it simply fueled Sybil's anger and defenses.

"How?" she countered. "I don't want any money, and you can hardly lock me up until I die!"

Tom's eyes kept moving back and forth between father and daughter, and watched as Lord Grantham was clearly baffled on how to respond to the youngest Crawley, especially since his threats were proving to be fruitless.

"I'll say goodnight…" Sybil finally announced, fed up with the lot of them. "But I promise you one thing!" she raised her voice again, making sure no one had any mistake of not understanding her. "Tomorrow morning, _nothing_ will have changed."

She had said her peace. There really was nothing further to be said by either of them, and Tom wouldn't dream of taking this moment away from her. While it was their news to share with her family, it was her voice that needed to be heard above any other.

"Tom?" she spoke, before turning on her heel and leaving the room. He would follow, and he did, but he lingered for a moment, his gaze never leaving Lord Grantham's, his eyes not wavering or blinking once. Yes, perhaps it had been a foolish gesture, it was certainly one filled with male pride and challenge, but he couldn't help it, he was angry too at the man's lack of understanding or openness.

Perhaps the man was expecting a fight? One where blows were thrown? Perhaps the room was expecting such a fight as well, because the air was so thick with tension, it would take more than a knife to cut through it, but an ax or a sword.

Lord Grantham did take one threatening step towards him, but Tom refused to fight the man, no matter how angry he was. He wouldn't do that, for Sybil's sake, if anything else. But he wouldn't become the scoundrel or hoodlum they no doubt all thought him to be. He'd show them all; he'd prove them all wrong. _Both_ of them would.

* * *

><p><em>PRESENT<em>

"When will I see you again?"

Tom sighed, his thumbs running over her knuckles. "I'll be back in the morning, to officially hand in my notice. Although I suspect everyone will be keeping an eye out from this point forward."

Sybil nodded her head sadly at the prospect. It was highly doubtful that his Lordship would let Sybil out of his sight over the next few days. But Tom knew nothing would keep them apart, and after Sybil's bold declaration before her family, they now knew it too. He just hoped that for her sake more than anything, they could make peace before they left.

"And you've already moved your things to the Grantham Arms?"

Tom nodded. "I have nowhere else to go; if you need me for any reason—"

"Milady?"

Tom and Sybil separated at the sound of the former first footman, now unemployed staff-sergeant, entering the hall and looking back and forth between the two of them with deep suspicion. Tom couldn't help but feel his jaw clench at Thomas' intrusion, especially since he knew how the git loved to cause unnecessary mischief below stairs.

"Is…everything alright?" Thomas continued asking, his eyes moving from Tom to Sybil and then back to Tom. It was Tom's turn to clench his fists as he glared back, especially when he caught what looked like Thomas' signature smirk.

"I only ask because I thought I heard shouting…"

_Stop playing the concerned servant when you it's the last thing that you are, on both counts!_ Oh what did it matter? It wasn't as if Thomas could go and tattle on him; he had already told Mr. Carson, who had been in the room, watching in silent horror as it all had played out.

"Everything is fine, Thomas," Sybil answered confidently, putting on a beautiful smile before turning and facing Tom. "I believe you know my fiancée?"

Tom's eyes widened in surprise at Sybil's introduction. However his shock was nothing compared to Thomas', whose eyes looked like they were going to burst from his head.

But even that shock couldn't have prepared the former-footman for what Sybil did next, which was bring her hands up to Tom's face and pull his lips down to hers, kissing him deeply and hungrily right there, in the main doorway of Downton Abbey!

Tom was left stunned by both the intensity of the kiss, and the fact that Sybil had done so, boldly in front of another.

"Goodnight," she sighed, smoothing his jacket and running her hands along his shoulders. "And thank you for coming."

He swallowed, glancing over at Thomas who was still staring in wide-eyed shock, before turning his attention back to Sybil and nodding his head. "Thank you for having me," he murmured, his lips still tingling from her kiss.

She leaned up on her tip toes and brushed her lips against his cheek this time, before murmuring one more goodnight, and turning back towards the hall to ascend the stairs. "Goodnight, Thomas!" she cheerfully greeted, passing the stunned man on her way, and Tom couldn't help but chuckle. Well, no doubt their story would spread like wildfire over the next half-hour.

Tom remained where he was, his eyes watching Sybil as she moved up the stairs until she was out of sight. He was prepared to turn and leave then, feeling no need to bid the other man goodbye, but was stopped short when Thomas reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder. "What are you playing at!?"

He attempted to shake Thomas' hand off him, but the former-footman's grip only tightened.

"I don't know what you think you're doing," Thomas growled. "But if you hurt her—"

"Since when did you care about Sybil?" Tom interrupted, succeeding in shaking Thomas' hand away, but standing firm and glaring back at the other man. Thomas was the sort who could talk a good game and pretend to be tough, but from Tom's observation, he thought the man a coward to the core.

However this time, Tom was surprised to see that Thomas wasn't going to be so easily intimidated or led astray from his questions.

"_Lady_ Sybil," Thomas emphasized, "Or Nurse Crawley, as I know her…" this answer actually caused Tom's eyebrows to lift in surprise. "We worked together at the hospital, we looked out for each other; she always stood by me and by God, I'm going to stand by her if it means keeping—"

"I love her, Thomas!" Tom hissed. "I love her and I'm not playing any sort of 'games' as you accuse! Didn't you hear what she just called me? I asked her to marry me and she's accepted; we're engaged!"

Thomas clearly didn't believe him. "This is all some sort of ploy to get money from his Lordship," he snorted.

Tom clenched his fists and felt his jaw crack. "This has NOTHING to do with money; do you honestly think his Lordship would give Sybil a dowry of any kind now? No, Thomas; unlike some people," he sneered, recalling the rumors he had heard about the man's black market business. "I don't care about getting anything; in fact I prefer it that way! All that matters, all that has _ever_ mattered, is her."

The two men glared at one another, neither speaking for a long time as Tom's information washed over Thomas, and as Thomas' revelation to how fondly he thought of Sybil washed over Tom. It was little secret amongst a majority of the servants as to Thomas'…'preferences', when it came to private company, so Tom knew he had nothing to fear in the sense of Thomas being a jealous, romantic rival for Sybil's heart. But oddly enough, even though Tom didn't trust the former-footman and doubted he ever would completely, let alone liking the man, he was pleased to learn that Sybil had another friend, someone who looked out for her during her years as a nurse. He even found himself chuckling, as he recalled the vows he had made about ripping the man apart if he learned that Thomas tried to bully Sybil the same way he had bullied William or Daisy.

Well, it seemed in the end, he had nothing to worry about.

So with that thought, Tom gave a slight bow of his head to the other man, before turning to leave. "If you see Mr. Carson anymore this evening, let him know that I'll be back just after breakfast tomorrow."

"Wait!" Thomas called out, but Tom was too quick before the man could grab his shoulder. However, he did stop and face the other man once again. "You mean it then? About…about going and getting married? _You and Lady Sybil?"_

Tom only smiled with pride and nodded his head. "That's right. Would you like an invitation to the wedding?"

Thomas made a face. "I can't believe it—"

"Believe it," Tom snarled, her seriousness returning. "Better yet, since you claim that the both of you are such good friends, why don't you ask her yourself?" What a novel idea. "And you know as well as I do, that Lady Sybil/Nurse Crawley isn't the sort of woman that would let others think for her, let alone make her decisions."

For a brief moment, the two men seemed to share an understanding. "No…" Thomas murmured. "She most definitely is not."

Tom couldn't help but smile at that. He had spoken his peace, there was nothing left to say, so with one final nod, he bid Thomas goodnight and turned and descended the stone steps of Downton, before proceeding to walk across the gravel drive, and ultimately follow the drive away from the house and back to the village.

They had done it, him and Sybil. The world had changed, but they had survived, though they may have created some enemies along the way. Still, regardless of the disappointment they felt at her family's reaction, Tom couldn't help but be proud of them both, especially her.

The world may be against them and try to tear them apart, but they would not go gently. Never.


	159. Sisterly Bonds

_HELLOOOOOO! Sorry for the long delay, I have many excuses, but I won't go into them. I will admit this was a difficult chapter to write, because I *really* wanted to have a confrontation between Sybil and Mary after the drawing room announcement, and I wanted to do right by both of them and really explore their relationship as sisters. I do feel that as I've been writing this story, I am coming to a better understanding of how Mary originally viewed Tom and Sybil's romance, and I hope I was able to express that well. Anyway, I won't delay any longer, thank you for reading and sticking with this story as always!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Fifty-Nine<strong>

She was prepared for any "unwelcome" company. She assumed that it would happen, that either her father would barge in and demand to speak with her (which was a joke, since he would be doing all the speaking and she, in his mind, would simply sit there and listen as he railed against her "madness") or perhaps her mother, bursting in and sobbing about "throwing her life away" and other such nonsense.

But it wasn't her parents who sought her out, nor her grandmother, although that would have surprised her the most; Granny climbing the stairs and demanding at this late hour to speak to her.

It was her sister.

Apparently Mary had been lying in wait, because the second Sybil reached her room after bidding Tom goodnight (and kissing him right in front of Thomas), the door shut behind her of its own free will. She whirled around, her hand flying to her chest and gasping, as there stood Mary, still in her evening wear, her face pale, her eyes wide, an expression that was a mix of shock, anger, and disappointment.

_So the time has come…_

Sybil took a deep breath and lifted her chin, squaring her shoulders and preparing herself for this battle that she knew had been a long time in coming.

Tonight she would have her answer at last; whether she would be leaving Downton with only one sister's blessing, or both.

"You lied to me…"

Sybil closed her eyes, summoning her patience and trying not to groan_. Which part?_

"All those months ago—good heavens, Sybil, it was practically a year ago!" Mary accused. "When I asked you about Branson, and you said—"

"Yes, I remember," she couldn't help but groan her answer. "I told you that _he_ 'was in love with me and wanted me to run away with him'. Yes, Mary, yes I lied, but if makes you feel any better, I wasn't just lying to you that day, but to myself as well," she turned her back on her sister and proceeded to sit on the edge of her bed while Mary stood there, continuing to stare at her in shock.

"Downstairs…" Mary began, her voice low but her tone clear. "Downstairs you said you've been in love with him _for years!"_

"And _that_ is true," Sybil countered, one hand gripping her bedpost because she felt she needed some sort of anchor to keep her from rising up and exploding at her sister. The adrenaline she had been feeling earlier when she had left the drawing room in an angry state was boiling once again, and while she didn't want to unleash that anger and attack her sister, she felt she was very much in danger of doing so if she didn't have something to hold her down.

Mary was shaking her head, looking more confused than angry at the moment, as if she were trying to put two and two together. "Good God, Sybil! How…_how long_ as this been going on?"

_Why hold anything back? There's no reason to anymore._

"I'm not sure," she answered truthfully. "My feelings for him have been growing steadily through the years; I don't know if I could pinpoint an exact moment when I realized I was in love with him. But I am fairly certain that I was, even if I wasn't prepared to admit to myself, well before the War."

Mary's hand flew to her mouth and she began to furiously pace back and forth across the room. "_BEFORE_ the War?" she gasped, looking at Sybil in wide-eyed shock. Or was that horror? Probably both. "Oh Lord, it's just like Papa said…all this time…all this time he's been—"

"No," Sybil growled, her knuckles turning white as her hand harshly gripped the bedpost. She would not have her sister repeat those ghastly words that their father had uttered. "Tom _did not_ 'seduce' me or anything of the sort! He didn't have to!"

Mary's pacing came to a sudden stop and she looked at Sybil with a mixture of confusion and wariness. "What do you mean 'he didn't have to'?"

Sybil lifted her chin. "I mean just that. I fell in love with Tom because Tom understood—_understands_ me, better than anyone else! He recognized my need, my hunger for knowledge about the world and what was happening in it, when Papa and others told me I shouldn't waste my time thinking about such things! But he didn't do that; he welcomed my questions, he provided me with information, he encouraged me to ask—"

"Good God, this goes all the way back to _that?"_ Mary gasped, staring at Sybil in disbelief. She was shaking her head and quickly resumed her pacing. "Papa was right; I…" she looked up at Sybil, and there was a flash of anger in her dark eyes. "I _defended_ him!"

"I know," Sybil murmured, remembering the night Mary had spoken up for her, defending Tom when their father threatened to have him sacked after her injury in Ripon. "And I am grateful—"

"Well I'm not!" Mary practically thundered. "I should have kept my mouth shut! Instead of listening to you, I should have encouraged Papa to make Branson leave that very night! Oh God, I _should_ have said something to him, period!" she threw hands up into the air, resuming her furious pacing again. "But no, no, I went against my better judgment, BOTH TIMES, because of _YOU_, Sybil," she growled. "Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me," she muttered to herself.

Sybil didn't say anything, deciding it best to keep silent and let her sister get her fury out, before speaking again. She also kept her thoughts about her sister's comments about her own foolishness to herself, as well. _Yes Mary, you are a fool, but not for the reasons which you think_, she sighed.

"I don't know what possessed me," Mary continued. "After breaking your promise about not going and doing anything 'foolish'," she spat, recalling how she, Anna, and Edith had chased after Tom and herself when they had attempted to elope. "I should have gone to Papa that very night; woken him up and told him that Branson had tried to kidnap you and see him arrested!"

"Then why didn't you?" Sybil challenged, shooting to her feet, though still gripping the bedpost. "Go on then; _why?_ I never asked you to keep quiet, at least not after that. _You chose_ to remain quiet, so why? Especially when you made it quite obvious you didn't approve—"

"Oh God, Sybil, BE SERIOUS!" Mary thundered. "You honestly think it's perfectly acceptable that you marry _the chauffeur?"_

"WILL YOU STOP CALLING HIM THAT!?" she was on the verge of screaming, her frustrations so tense. "He HAS a name, and I don't just mean 'Branson'!" she glared at Mary, her next words coming out through clipped lips. "You best get used to calling him Tom; because he _will be_ your brother-in-law."

Mary stared at her with wide eyes; Sybil wasn't sure if Mary was more shocked by how Sybil had nearly screamed, or at the revelation that "the chauffeur" would indeed become her brother-in-law.

"Do you think I've forgotten what you said to me that day?" Sybil asked, trying to get her voice back to a more civil tone, even though her breathing had quickened. "When I revealed to you that Tom wanted me to run away with him? Because I assure you, I haven't forgotten—those words _still_ haunt me," she bitterly spat_. "Don't be such a baby; this isn't fairy land. What, you think you'd marry the chauffeur and we'd all come to tea?"_

The bitterness was harsh in her voice. Her tone was cold and hard. She glared at her sister, who actually looked as if someone had slapped her.

It was not what Sybil had expected. She thought Mary would retaliate, say something along the lines that she _was_ being a baby, believing that such a thing could be possible, that not only would they accept her decision, but give them their blessing as well!

Yet perhaps tonight, when she stood by Tom's side and faced her family, letting each and every one of them know her intentions, her plans for the future, showing them all just how determined she was in seeing this through…

Perhaps tonight Mary finally realized just how serious Sybil was.

This _was_ happening. This was _really_ happening. She had told their family; and after Matthew and Lavinia's wedding, whether they liked it or not, she _was_ leaving with Tom for Ireland. And they _were_ going to be married.

Sybil squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Mary had sunk down onto the chair at her dressing table, and was looking down at the ground, providing a rare glimpse of vulnerability that many people didn't think the eldest Crawley girl possessed. Despite everything, Sybil did feel both honored and humbled, that her sister trusted her enough to show such a side to her.

"You're disappointed with me," she murmured after another moment's pause. It wasn't a question.

Mary lifted her eyes then, and Sybil swallowed, trying to remain steadfast and strong, despite the surprise at seeing tears in their dark brown depths.

Mary opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Indeed, Sybil could count herself as one of the blessed few to given such a glimpse at this softer side to Lady Mary Crawley.

"I am sorry for that," Sybil murmured, surprising herself with the words they left her lips. Mary stared at her, her eyes widening, but Sybil quickly explained. "I mean, if I have disappointed you; or for making you feel disappointed," she clarified. "But…I _will not_ apologize for my choices."

Mary closed her mouth and lifted her chin, her eyes assessing her sister, but Sybil remained firm and resolute. It was Mary's turn to speak now, so she lowered herself back down to the bed, her hand releasing the bedpost and folding on her lap, and she waited.

Another moment of silence passed, before Mary murmured, "I honestly don't know what to say…"

"Yes you do," Sybil replied after taking a deep breath. "Just…say whatever is in your heart."

Mary made a noise at this and Sybil saw her sister roll her eyes. "According to most I don't have a heart," she muttered.

Sybil frowned. "You know I never believed that."

Mary arched one of her eyebrows at her. "Oh really? Even after I accused you of being a 'baby'? And tried put a stop between you and Branson?"

Sybil looked down at her hands and sighed. "Well…I will not deny I disliked your words, and your actions," she added. "However, I don't think that's a sign of you being heartless; if anything…" she murmured, before lifting her eyes and meeting her sister's gaze. "If anything, I suppose, it's a sign that you do have a heart; that you do care—"

"OF COURSE I CARE!" Mary gasped, her eyes going wide at the mere suggestion or thought that she didn't. "Sybil, you're my sister! And believe it or not, I love _both_ my sisters!"

Sybil's eyes went wide at this. It wasn't that she didn't believe Mary, but it was so rare to hear either Mary or Edith say anything that sounded like love and sisterly affection towards one another.

"I care VERY MUCH about the prospect of…of…" Mary had to pause to take a breath in order to keep her emotions from overflowing. "…of never seeing you again!"

Sybil rose from the bed and crossed the small space until she was kneeling in front of Mary, gripping both of her sister's hands in hers and forcing the other to look at her. "It doesn't have to be like that!" she insisted. "I meant what I said earlier, about 'being friends with everyone'—and don't scoff at it!" she warned, seeing how Mary was starting to roll her eyes. "You used to say that you didn't care what others thought or that you wouldn't be 'told what to do'."

Mary groaned and shook her head. "Yes, well, I've grown up considerably since I said those things, and have long since realized that there are consequences to every action, and…and…well, what other people think and say does matter."

Sybil frowned. Clearly Mary was referring to something else. "Only if you let it," she murmured.

Mary groaned again and pulled her hands free from Sybil, before rising from the chair and stepping away from her. "Well forgive me, dearest, but I was never as 'bold' as you," she sighed. There was something in her voice, something that sounded like…regret.

Sybil watched her sister, who had turned her back on her and seemed to be staring off into some distance. "So…so that's it then?" she spoke at last. If this was how it was truly going to be, she wanted Mary to tell her to her face. "I follow my heart and marry the man I love; you'll cast me off and never speak to me again?"

"Oh, Sybil," Mary groaned.

"Answer the question!" she demanded, rising to her feet and coming around to face her sister. "You just admitted that you _do_ care what others say, that their thoughts and opinions matter, and despite what you may think, I _am_ well aware that my choices to marry Tom and live a life different from this," she held her arms out to the room around them, "will earn me a 'sordid reputation'."

Realization suddenly dawned on Mary and she looked at Sybil with wide eyes. "Good God, you're not—?"

Sybil's own eyes went wide when she realized what Mary was implying. "NO!" she gasped, disgusted that her sister would even think or assume—

She closed her eyes and summoned her patience. While it was something that neither of them had discussed in great detail, both Tom and Sybil knew that there would be "assumptions" made by people that the only reason she would even consider marrying him was because he had "ruined" her.

"Despite what you may think, Tom is a perfect gentleman, which is more than I can say for most men whose wealth and rank allow them to wear that title," she spat in disgust. "He's certainly no Larry Grey!"

Mary seemed to soften at the mention of this. "Well thank God for that," she sighed, her voice filled with relief. Despite this conversation, Sybil did find herself smiling just slightly at her sister's words. There was no love lost between Mary and Larry Grey, and at least that was something where her sister showed consistency.

"Let me reassure you of that, at least," Sybil murmured, reaching forward and taking one of Mary's hands in hers. "Tom has always treated me with kindness and respect. Oh I won't deny we've had our arguments, but…he's never done anything to hurt me or frighten me; he's never forced any advances upon me, and…while I will admit that we have kissed, and on more than one occasion," she blushed, recalling all of the kisses she and her fiancée had shared, including the one they had just exchanged before she came upstairs. "But as I said before, he is _not_ guilty of 'seducing me', as Papa accused. And while I'm not so naïve as to realize that is what others will assume," she added, pained by this reality. After all, why would an earl's daughter _willingly_ choose to marry a man "beneath" her? Apparently "love" wasn't a good enough reason. "I care more that my family knows and understands the truth, than whatever the gossip hounds of Society think."

Mary stared back at her, and Sybil wasn't sure what her sister's look held. There seemed to be a mix of…amazement and…admiration?

"Oh Sybil," Mary murmured. "I do envy you, sometimes."

"Please don't," she pleaded, taking both of Mary's hands in hers and squeezing them gently. "I don't want you to envy me or pity me or anything like that, I just…" she looked down at their hands and swallowed the tears threatened to fall. "I just want to know that when I leave here, I leave with knowledge that both my sisters will still love and accept me."

Mary stiffened slightly at her words. "_Both_ your sisters…?"

Oh hell.

"Mary—"

"Has Edith been helping you and Branson?"

As if on cue, there was a light knock on the door and before Sybil could say anything to Mary or to whomever was on the other side, the door opened and Edith poked her head inside. "Sybil? Are you—oh!" she paused when she realized that the youngest Crawley girl wasn't alone. "Hello, Mary."

Mary's eyes were like daggers. "Don't sound so innocent," she growled.

Edith looked taken aback. "I don't know what you—"

"Oh stop lying!" Mary accused. "And stop pretending you don't have a hand in all this!"

Sybil groaned and waved her hand at Edith, stopping her sister from saying anything that could lead to an even bigger argument. "Edith, please, just go—I'm fine, thank you for coming, but—"

"Go? Why should she go?" Mary interrupted, throwing her hands up into the air. "_I_ should be the one that leaves; after all, I wouldn't want to get in the way of whatever secret plot the two of you are concocting!"

Edith rolled her eyes, before putting on a somewhat smug smile. "Jealousy was never a good look on you, Mary—"

"STOP IT, BOTH OF YOU!"

Both sisters stared at their youngest, whose face was red and fuming.

"I…I swear, I'm just so TIRED of all this!" she pointed at both of them. "THIS pointless and ceaseless war that you two have been raging since the nursery! WHY!?" She looked back and forth between them but neither had an answer, in fact they were both looking away and at the ground. "Good God…I mean, it's enough to make ANYONE want to run away to Ireland, and NO, that is NOT why I am marrying Tom!" she growled when Mary's eyes darted to hers.

Sybil was shaking, shaking with so much pent-up frustration and anger over how everything had turned out. No one wanted to listen to her, they all thought her reasons were foolish, and everyone certainly seemed to have a high opinion on what she should think and do. Well, she could give a high opinion too!

"Mary," she began, turning to her eldest sister. "The reason for our trip to London to visit Aunt Rosamond earlier this winter was because Edith had made arrangements so that Tom and I could spend some time together, away Downton."

Mary's eyes went wide and her mouth fell open and she turned and gave an accusatory look at Edith, whose own eyes had gone wide, and whose face had gone pale before turning a dark shade of red, clearly not expecting Sybil to reveal that much.

"And I am grateful for all that Edith did, I truly am," Sybil murmured, turning and offering her sister a smile, before turning her eyes back to Mary, her smile fading. "But at the same time, I do regret not saying anything to you, even though I knew you wouldn't like it."

Mary didn't say anything, but she did lift her chin and hold Sybil's gaze for a moment, and Sybil could tell that her sister was hurt by this revelation, but more so for the reasons to which Sybil had felt guilty about, which was keeping her eldest sister in the dark.

"I don't play favorites, or I certainly try not to," she reasoned. She thought back over the years, how before the War Mary always seemed to the one she gravitated toward, but during the War, Edith became a confidant with whom she bonded due their shared interests in trying to get involved and make a difference. Now that the War was over…and she was about to embark on this new journey, she realized now, more than ever, how important it was to keep both bonds strong. "I love you…_both_ of you, so much…" she managed to choke out through the emotion that was threatening to burst. "And…and even if you don't agree with my choices, at the very least, please…" she reached out and gripped both their hands. "Please…let me leave knowing that I still have your love, and that I am _still_ your sister and not some stranger?"

"Oh Sybil," Edith whispered, tears flowing down her cheeks. Mary didn't say anything, however she didn't release Sybil's hand either, not until Edith gulped back a sob, before stepping forward and enfolding Sybil into her arms.

Sybil welcomed the hug, smiling and grateful for it, but her eyes remained locked on Mary, who was watching them both, her appearance hard as steel, although Sybil could see the emotion building in Mary's eyes, and could see just how hard her sister was fighting in trying to keep her own tears from bursting.

Sybil gently pulled away from Edith and took her sister's hands in hers and gave them a gentle squeeze. "Thank you, Edith," she whispered, smiling and leaning close to kiss Edith's cheek. "But…if don't mind, I would like to talk a little more with Mary in private?"

Edith glanced back and forth between her elder and younger sister, and Sybil only prayed that she wouldn't leave, sulking and thinking that Sybil preferred Mary over her.

Thankfully, that didn't happen. "Of course," she whispered, smiling and squeezing Sybil's hands, before murmuring a soft "goodnight" to them both, and leaving the room without another glance.

As soon as the door closed, Mary let out a weary sigh. "Don't think this means that I'm still not upset with you—both of you," she muttered, although Sybil could see that there was lightness in her voice, and a small smile began to betray the corners of her mouth. "If anything…I must say I'm rather impressed that Edith managed to fool me; she's not very good at keeping secrets."

"It was deceitful, I know," Sybil sighed. "But I was desperate. I had just told Tom that I loved him and wanted to spend the rest of my life with him, and then there was that whole mess in our attempt to run away to Gretna Green, and I was living in fear that something was going to happen, that he would be taken from me, and you were trying so hard to keep us separated—"

"So it's my fault, is that it?" Mary interrupted. "I drove you and Edith to plot together a ruse to get you to London so you and the chauffeur—"

"Mary…" Sybil warned.

"You and _Branson_," Mary corrected for her sake; it was a start at least. "Could go and gallivant—"

"Do you want to know what we did?" Sybil asked, the picture of innocence.

Mary made a face. "I'd rather not."

She ignored her. "We did all the things I had wanted to do back when I was planning my season; he took me to the British Museum, strolled the London Zoo, we rode the Underground—"

"THE UNDERGROUND!?"

Sybil grinned and nodded her head proudly. "Yes, and it was so much fun," she giggled. "Ate chips from a cart, cheered at a rally—"

"Oh God," Mary groaned.

"And went shopping on Portobello Road," she concluded. She decided to keep her story about sneaking out to Piccadilly to the pub where Tom was staying a secret, at least for now. Perhaps she would share that story with both her sisters sometime in the future? "And we held hands…and kissed…in public."

Mary rolled her eyes. "If I thought it would make any difference, I would mutter something about decorum, but what's the point? You with your mad frocks and political opinions; you never gave a fig for propriety."

Sybil couldn't help but smile at her sister's words, especially as she could hear an air of affection behind them.

"Perhaps then, you can see why Tom and the life he offers, is rather perfect for me?"

Mary frowned, however there was nothing but genuine concern in her eyes. "Sybil…alright, I'll agree that…things like…planning elegant dinners, hosting teas, and attending society balls are not for you, but…" she reached out and took Sybil's hand in hers. "But this isn't going to be like you going to York for two months."

Sybil sighed and squeezed Mary's hand. "I know that."

"Do you?" Mary asked, her grip tightening. "Are you _truly_ aware of the differences you'll face? Every day, Sybil; every day you'll have to work, and I don't just mean as a nurse, but…but I doubt the two of you will have any help with cooking and keeping a home—"

"It will be a challenge, I am aware of that," she murmured. "But…but I welcome it; it doesn't frighten me, honestly!"

"But you'll be so far away! You'll be in another country, where you won't know anyone and everyone will sound and speak differently from you, away from all the people you love and who love you—"

"Tom loves me, and his family will be my family, so I won't be completely on my own," she said with a small smile.

Mary stiffened just slightly. "So are the Bransons to replace us, then?"

"Oh Mary," Sybil released her sister's hands and cupped her face. "How can you even ask that?"

Mary swallowed and for the first time since coming to her room, she allowed the tears that had been gathering in her eyes to slide down her cheeks.

"You're my baby sister, Sybil; and yet despite the difference in our ages, I always felt you understood me better than anyone, even myself sometimes," she whispered, moving a hand to quickly wipe away her tears. Sybil didn't say anything but she thought there was a great deal of truth in that statement.

_Oh Mary, why are you so stubborn and refusing to listen to your heart? _

"When Branson told me about how you had been injured in Ripon all those years ago? I…I swore, I felt my heart stop. I always felt it was my responsibility to keep you safe, to watch over you and protect you, and…and when I learned that you had been hurt, I felt I had failed you, that in my pursuit of Matthew I had neglected—" her hand flew to her mouth; she had revealed too much. She started to back away from Sybil, but Sybil was quick to grip her shoulders and keep her there.

"Mary…" Sybil murmured, looking deeply into her sister's eyes. "I am grateful for everything you have done for me—I mean that, I really do," and she did. Because as Mary said, she did understand her sister, at least when it came to her actions in regards to her. Mary was still trying to play the role of protective older sister, she was still trying to watch out for her and do what she thought was best. And Sybil knew that it truly came out of a place of love.

…But trust was also a part of love. And Mary needed to trust that her baby sister knew what she was doing.

"But…I need to live my life…_for me_," she whispered, her hands going back to her sister's cheeks, Mary's tears wetting her fingers. "And I know, deep in my heart, that this _is_ the right decision; all of it."

They stood in silence for a long moment, just gazing back at each other. Sybil still didn't know what her sister thought of the whole thing, not that she expected Mary to give her blessing then and there. Yet she was hopeful that Mary would give her some sign that she…would try.

"So…" she whispered, her hands falling away. "You never answered my question."

Mary frowned, looking confused. "Your question?"

Sybil nodded. "By marrying Tom and leaving England, am I also saying goodbye to my sister…forever?"

She was holding her breath, her hands at her sides clenched into fists, hoping and praying that she would have the strength not to crumple into a heap if her sister answered negatively.

Mary gazed at her for a long moment, her hands clasped together in front. "I can't give you my blessing, if that's what you're asking," she murmured. "I'm sorry, Sybil, but…but this goes against _everything_ we've been taught!"

She didn't move, she didn't breathe, she just stared and waited, the beat of her heart beginning to drown out everything else.

"But I'll never stop loving you," she whispered. "And I'll never deny you, even if I don't agree with any of it," her voice was shaking as her emotions threatened to overcome her. "You're still my sister, Sybil; you'll _always_ be my sister no matter what."

"Mary—" she managed to gasp, moving towards her, wanting to hug her and cry against her shoulder, but Mary stepped away, putting up her hands and biting her lip, barely being able to stop the sob that nearly burst from her throat.

"Goodnight," she managed to gasp. "I'll see you in the morning." And with that, she turned and fled the room, the door echoing in her wake.

Sybil stood there for a long moment, frozen and numb, her tears rolling down her cheeks in cold silence as she continued to stare at the place where Mary had just been standing.

It wasn't the answer she had been hoping for, but it also wasn't the answer she had been dreading.

_We're sisters, we'll always be sisters; nothing can break that bond._

It would take time. Mary couldn't give her blessing now…but perhaps someday she would? There was always a chance. After all, when they had first met, Mary couldn't stand Matthew, and now, more than ever, Sybil was certain her sister was still just as in love with him as she was nearly six years ago. Yes, there was always a chance; she just needed to be patient. As Tom promised her, _"give them time and they'll come around". _

She felt a smile lift at the corners of her mouth. For the first time since he had uttered them, she believed those words.

And why shouldn't she? He had been right about her, and look how his patience had paid off?

* * *

><p><em>Just one more author's note!<em>

_It's never really mentioned in the show if Sybil ever found out about the "Pemuk" scandal, so I decided to go with the idea that she is *still* in the dark about what really happened. Also, I hope I didn't convey Mary as being "too harsh" on Sybil, but I do think this was realistic; after all, in the scenes that follow the drawing room confrontation, we don't see Mary cuddling up to the idea of Sybil leaving and marrying Branson (after all, she tells Sir Richard she wouldn't mind if he drove over Tom), but by that same token, while I feel she isn't ready to accept/support the marriage *yet*, I think it's true to Mary's character that she will always love her sister, and never turn her away, even if she doesn't agree with her decisions._


	160. 1919: A Fourth Letter to Gwen

_Whoo hoo! Hooray for quick updates! Dedicating this one to my girl Sal, aka **dustedoffanoldie** who more or less grabbed me by the virtual shoulders and demanded a quick update ;o) hope this helped! It's always fun to see the friendship between Sybil and Gwen, but I do think Tom had a close friendship with her too :o) Thanks for reading!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Sixty<strong>

Dear Gwen,

Well…it happened. I know Sybil's already written to you, told you our news, and told you about our plans to tell her family…which we did, last night.

…

…

…Suppose it's safe to say that it went as well as one would expect, when man stands before his employer and announces that not only has he asked for the hand of his employer's youngest daughter (without daring to ask for permission), but that the two of them have been secretly in love for many months—years, in fact.

Could have been worse, though; Lord Grantham could have gone to fetch a pistol and shoot me dead in the drawing room, and no doubt he could convince the magistrate to overlook my murder and see it as an act of "self-defense" because he was "protecting" his daughter from the evil Irish Republican.

Who knows, maybe he's still planning on doing that? I'm still amazed that I left Downton both last night and this morning with no bullet holes in my back, or an issue for my arrest. Perhaps the police are lying in wait? Perhaps any second now, the door to my room will be broken down, and they'll haul me off to some Yorkshire prison…or ship me back to Ireland without a by your leave? It's a strong possibility, which is why I haven't unpacked my suitcase yet, not fully, at least.

Oh, in case you're confused (although no doubt you quickly realized) I'm no longer at the big house, though really, how could I be? I'd be daft to stay and they'd be daft to let me. No, I'm writing this to you not from the cozy confines of my cottage, but from a room here at the Grantham Arms. Did Sybil tell you that in her letter? This was part of our plan; _The Irish Republic_ sent me an advance, which has come in very handy for this very reason. Maybe it was foolish to say something now; after all, we won't be leaving until after the wedding between Miss Swire and Mr. Matthew, but…it was always our intentions to say something the day after I received good news about a job, so…there you have it.

We're no longer a secret; our courtship, our union…everything. The world is now aware.

…

As I hinted, our announcement was met with, shall we say, a great lack of enthusiasm. His Lordship raged, her Ladyship panicked, Lady Mary and Lady Edith already knew everything, so sat by as silent witnesses for the most part; Mr. Matthew and Miss Swire seemed to be just as shocked, but also kept silent, and Old Lady Grantham…actually, she surprised me the most. She didn't dismiss our announcement the way his Lordship had, in fact, she was the only one who really seemed to take us seriously and ask us questions about our plans for how we would live and what we would do upon arriving in Ireland. I'm not saying she supported our decision, but at least she didn't refer to it as a "folly".

…Or demand if I had "no shame".

…

Mr. Carson was in the drawing room as well, last night, so he heard everything too. I didn't really have a chance to see how he was handling it all, but his reaction was not unexpected, I'm sorry to say. He didn't say it last night, mind you, but this morning, when I returned to Downton to officially hand in my notice.

Ah Gwen…you should have seen it; I can't remember the last time the Servant's Hall got so quiet.

As I told you, I half-expected his Lordship to have set the dogs on me, but to my great surprise, I not only managed to walk onto the grounds without difficulty, but enter the house too! In fact…by some miracle, no one acted as if…they knew anything!

Anna knew, of course, and Mr. Carson. I thought surely he would have said something to Mrs. Hughes—and maybe he did, but I didn't see her, sadly. No doubt she was upstairs, trying to help in overseeing things for Saturday's wedding. I always got on with Mrs. Hughes; she reminds me of my mam in so many ways. And I know she's very fond of Sybil; I honestly don't know how she would handle our news. Would she welcome it? Embrace it? Be glad for us because she wants us both to be happy? Or would she share Mr. Carson's view and ask if I have no shame?

…

Did I ever tell you Gwen, about how both Sybil and I held hands at the Downton garden party, all those years ago? It happened just shortly after Sybil gave you the news about getting the job. Mrs. Hughes had come up and demanded to know why we were all so giddy, and as you turned to explain everything, my hand and Sybil's simply…drifted together.

That was the first moment I truly felt hope; that…that perhaps it was possible, that a woman like her could love a man like me.

And Mrs. Hughes must have noticed something too, because she quickly made up some excuse for Sybil to go and see to her Ladyship, before warning me to be careful, or else I'll "end up with no job and a broken heart". I can't help but wonder if/when Mrs. Hughes learns about what happened, if she'll be very surprised.

…

I'll miss her; I'll miss all of them, if I'm honest. Well, maybe not Miss O'Brien…or Thomas…but I'll miss Daisy, Mrs. Patmore, Mr. Bates, and of course I'll miss Anna. And despite the way which we parted, I'll even miss Mr. Carson.

When I entered the Servant's Hall they were all busy with their work, no one even paying me any mind, save Anna, who looked up and offered some words of understanding and support. At least I'll have one friend still at Downton. I couldn't help but wonder if she would have said something to Mr. Bates; I'd rather he learn from her than from his Lordship.

That was what was so amazing, really; that neither Mr. Bates or Miss O'Brien had said anything or hinted that they were aware that something had happened last night, and the only conclusion I can draw is that both his Lordship and her Ladyship agreed not to say anything to either of them. But trust Daisy to ask the obvious. I murmured to Anna that perhaps Sybil and I should have spoken out long ago, to which Daisy's quick ears perked up and asked what I meant. And…well, I didn't see any reason to keep them all in the dark, and knowing that if they hadn't learned what was happening yet, before the end of the day they would once they found I was no longer working there, and…well, to be quite honest, I'd rather have them know the truth, than some twisted version of it, like the implication that I seduced Sybil, so I turned to face them all and put on a smile made the announcement: that Lady Sybil and I are getting married.

…

Gwen, I swear you could have heard a pin drop. Like I said, I've never heard the Servant's Hall get so quiet. I honestly don't know if they thought I was making a joke or being serious, however any thoughts regarding that or any questions they may have had flew out the window because in the next second, Mr. Carson stormed in and thundered the words, _"Have you no shame!?"_

…

…

…I…forgive me, Gwen, my hand is shaking a bit as I try to write this…

…

I don't know if I can explain the…the _disappointment_, I felt, when he said those words. I know there were a great many things Mr. Carson and I never saw eye to eye on (politics being the most obvious), and yet…despite those differences of opinion, I always did respect the man, and admired his loyalty to the Crawley family, as well as to the staff. So yes, it was very disappointing that after all these years of working at Downton, and knowing who I was, even after that whole incident with the visiting General—

…

Well, that's a story I'll share with you on another day. But the point is…he knows me; he knows the man I am, or I thought he did. And yet he stood there before me, asking if I had any shame, expecting me to feel ashamed for my feelings, for the love that's in my heart for Sybil and the life I want to build with her as my wife.

It was another cruel reminder, Gwen; a cruel reminder that people will assume the worst because she's the daughter of an earl, and I'm a working class Irish Catholic.

Well…I didn't take Mr. Carson's accusation sitting down.

I stood tall, straightened my shoulders and held my head high as I replied that no, I have no shame, that I have great pride in Sybil's love and that I will strive to worthy of it, every single day for the rest of my life.

…

Poor Mr. Carson.

I actually feel pity for the man, Gwen. Sitting here, writing and telling you all this, I do, I actually find myself feeling pity for him.

I'm not saying that the man doesn't know love or has never experienced love, but…he can't understand how…how two people like Sybil and myself, who come from such different worlds, can love one another. And yet if he—if all of them, really, paused to look a little deeper, they would realize that Sybil and I, despite our backgrounds…are…well, that we're each other's equals. Like…two halves of one whole.

He dismissed me at that point. He didn't want to talk further for fear that he would "disgrace" himself. However I do recall seeing…I don't know if he would ever admit it, but I swore I recalled seeing what looked like tears in the man's eyes. I've never seen Mr. Carson cry before—not even when poor William died. And yet I saw the tears in his eyes, Gwen. Perhaps they were tears of disappointment, or…maybe he is sad that it has come to this, that he must act as he has been taught, which is see me as nothing but a "thieving leech", but…well, whatever the case may be, I am sad that we had to part as we did. And I can only hope and pray that with time, they will come around as well.

...

It was difficult, Gwen. I don't know if it was like this for you; I'm sure it was to a point, although you were leaving under different circumstances, but…before I left, I remember looking at the table where they all sat, this group of people who I've worked alongside for nearly seven years, some of whom I argued with, many of whom I grew close to, people who when I first began here, I didn't think I would form friendships with, but who I have and who I feel even closer to than some of my childhood friends back in Ireland—people who have become…like family to me. Who _have been_ my family and who I will always think of as family…

…

I'm going to miss them; all of them.

…

Oh to hell with it, yes, I'll even miss Thomas and O'Brien too.

…To a point.

Actually, Thomas knew. He came upon Sybil and myself last night, before I left. We were standing in the main doorway, saying our goodbyes, and he interrupted us, asking if everything was alright, no doubt looking for some piece of information to lord over me and blackmail, but Sybil surprised the both of us when she announced loud and clear that I was her fiancée, before proceeding to kiss me to the point where I was panting for air.

Looking back on it, Gwen, I have to say—I can't recall the last time I have ever seen Thomas stunned speechless.

He more or less "threatened" me afterwards, thinking I was toying with Sybil. Apparently (according to him) he and Sybil became good friends during their time working together at the hospital. I can't say I'm too surprised, at least on Sybil's behalf. But I was a little taken aback by Thomas' rather passionate defense of her. While I never got on with the man, mainly for his bullying of William and Daisy, I am glad to know that he was kind to Sybil, and that she had a friend looking out for her at the hospital. It might be enough to perhaps put the git in my good graces. _Perhaps_.

Actually, in all seriousness, I am surprised he didn't go and start spreading the gossip around the Servant's Hall like wildfire, especially what he just heard and saw from the both of us. It's just the sort of thing he would have done in the past…but I suppose that shows that even Thomas has a heart, at least where Sybil is concerned.

…

Well…there you have it. Like you, I too have now left service and Downton Abbey was the last house and the Crawleys were last family I served. It's strange and sad, exhilarating and frightening. I've worked in service for so long…and now here I am, about to embark on a new venture, as a journalist, doing something I love, and…like you, I too have Sybil to thank for that, or rather, to thank her for always believing in me. She has an uncanny way of doing that, doesn't she? Even when you think there's no hope left…she always manages to find some.

I didn't get the chance to see her today, though I wish I had. I have no idea what's happening back at Downton; I only pray that they're treating her well. No matter how upset her family is with her, I can't imagine any of them causing her any harm, but it tears me up, knowing that she's having to deal with all of this by herself and I can't even be there on the grounds to provide a little comfort. She did promise me that if anything were to happen, she wouldn't hesitate to come to me, or find some way to get word to me. But as I told Sybil, the King of England himself could not make me leave this country, let alone this village, without her. I'll scale the walls if I have to. And I imagine Sybil would tie some bed sheets from end to end if they even tried to lock her away. I just need to remember that; that she's more than capable of looking after herself and can stand up and go toe to toe with the best of them. I saw so much of that fire in her last night, that spirit which I love. Still…I wish I could be there.

We will leave soon; Monday, possibly Tuesday, after Mr. Matthew's and Miss Swire's wedding. I know that Sybil expressed a wish in her letter about the possibility of seeing you and Edward and the children before we make our departure for Liverpool. I know I would like that very much too, certainly as a means of thanking both you and Edward for all that you did in helping me find_ The Irish Republic. _Without your help, I may very well still be working at Downton and both Sybil and I would be continuing our wait. And as much as I know that I will miss the others…I am glad, _very glad_, to be taking this next step forward. A step towards a new life; a life with Sybil.

I know it will be nearly impossible for you to reply back with me staying here at the Grantham Arms, so please don't worry and trouble yourself. Hopefully, we will see each other again and soon.

Oh Gwen…thank you for being a dear friend, to both of us, for all that you have done. I owe you so much; my life, really—certainly my future happiness. So thank you, a thousand times, thank you.

In fond friendship, always,

—Tom


	161. Sybil's Diary XXXIV

_Chugging along! Here we have the emotional "you go Sybil!" confrontation between herself, Robert, and Violet, with the most badass Sybil line: "I WILL NOT GIVE HIM UP!" I should mention that the next few chapters all deal with events that occur over a 48 hour period, so this is the big step-off to that! Also, I should mention that I am going to be working very hard with getting this story wrapped up and finalized by Sunday, Sept. 22, 2013; why? Because that is the date for S4 of Downton, and on that day, I will begin (finally) posting my S3 and future DA rewrite, "Love's Continuing Journey", a sequel to this story that will follow Tom and Sybil's lives as a married couple starting a family, and will also serve as an "AU alternative" to S4 for anyone who wants one (and that's not just the Sybil/Tom ship, but other ships/storylines as well!) Ok, enough shameless plugging, onto the chapter! I HOPE YOU ENJOY and thank you for reading/following/reviewing as always!_

_Also, I'm dedicating this chapter to **locksmith**, who has been leaving some lovely reviews and is eager for updates ;o)_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Sixty-One<strong>

April 3, 1919

Yesterday I nearly allowed my fear to get the better of me.

It seems like a world away when I pause and think about it.

I remember waking up, absolutely terrified about facing my family. I remember rising well before dawn, eventually making my way to the garage, sitting and waiting for Tom, and seeking whatever strength and comfort he could provide. I spent the rest of the day worrying about the evening, my fear simply growing with each passing second. I confronted Anna and my sisters first, told them my intentions with hopes that I could perhaps find some support, only to walk away feeling even more afraid, more unsure than before…and then was unable to touch most of my dinner because I did not think I would be able to keep any of it down due to the anxiousness and fear that I felt.

And even when he finally arrived, when he looked at me from across the drawing room—me and me alone, and said those two simple words: _"I'm here"._ Even then, when I knew I wasn't going to have to face this alone, I nearly allowed my fear to best me, thinking perhaps we shouldn't, that now was not the best time…

Last night, I nearly prolonged the inevitable because of my fear, which I know, of course, would not have provided me with any sense of relief or comfort; it would merely bring about more hardship and misery, and no doubt have driven me mad.

But thank God for Tom.

Thank God for him; for his persistence, for his stubbornness, for pushing me to say something when my fear tried to silence me.

…

…And thank God for his love and his faith in me. Last night he said that I would have found my voice—that I always do. Oh Tom; what a pair we make. I never once doubted you would go and do great things and "make something of yourself". Somehow…by some miracle, it seems possible that you believe the same of me.

Yes, indeed, thank God for him, because something did happen last night…

…

I found my voice.

…

That sounds strange, I suppose, because I've always had opinions that I have never been afraid to share, be they about the vote, women's rights, justice and equality for all people, and certainly about what part I would play during the war, but…last night, for the first time, I stood before my family and I told them more than just my personal political thoughts, or what I wanted to do with my life and how I wanted to live it.

Last night, I told them that _I will_ marry Tom. That I will become a nurse and work like so many other people. That I will go with Tom to Ireland, to make the future we both want, become a reality.

I found my voice last night. I wasn't asking for permission, or even informing them about things that I wanted. Last night, I told them. And I told them how I was going to do these things.

Last night…for the first time, I truly felt like I stood before everyone not as the baby of the family…but as my own person.

…And there's nothing they can do about it. Because no matter how many ways in which Papa shouted and roared, or Mama sniffled and worried, my mind would not and _will not_ be swayed.

…

And they know it. I think that's what frightens and angers Papa the most; that no matter the threats he throws at me to try and make me reconsider my choices, they don't matter. I am more than determined—I am resigned.

I'm still surprised that neither Mama nor Papa came to my room last night. I stayed awake long after Mary left, sitting and waiting for what I assumed would be the inevitable confrontation and argument…but it never came.

No, instead it waited until the sun was up.

I rose early again, although it was different compared to yesterday. I didn't feel that sense of dread and foreboding as I had the previous morning, but merely…a sense of sad resignation that my family, for the most part, couldn't understand (or perhaps refused to understand) my reasons for the choices I was making. Perhaps if they had listened to me in the past this wouldn't be such a shock for them, but…with how they have all been going on about how they wish the world would go back to how it was before the War…I suppose it isn't so surprising that they find the idea of me wishing to live the sort of life I want to live, with Tom, "unfathomable".

I debated about whether or not I should go downstairs for breakfast; the idea of getting into an argument or debate was not very appetizing, but in the end I refused to be the "locked up princess", so with my head held high, I left my room, prepared to face whoever I encountered…and found only Edith.

Papa had yet to come down, and the same was true for Mary and Lavinia. Mama, of course, would be having breakfast in her room, but…I don't know what I was expecting, really. In some ways I was glad it was only Edith, but in others I was disappointed, because even though I felt no shame for my decisions, it seemed my family was determined to shame me, regardless. Even Carson, who stood silently by the sideboard, looked more dower than usual and refused to meet my eyes. Yes, I am sure that in his eyes I am either a foolish child or a fallen woman. Perhaps a little of both.

I could tell that Edith wanted to discuss what had happened last night after she had left my room, but I really didn't feel like talking about it, especially with Carson standing nearby. Besides, that's a private conversation between Mary and myself, just as my conversation with Edith back in January was one between the two of us. So I did my best to politely deflect any questions or looks she was trying to say and give me, and simply ate my breakfast in peace (although I wasn't really able to enjoy it; my appetite just wasn't there).

When we were finished, Edith murmured something about going into the drawing room to continue helping Mrs. Hughes with unwrapping and displaying of Matthew and Lavinia's wedding presents. I nodded my head and debated about whether or not to offer any help, even though I'm sure I would make very poor company for the same reasons I had thought the other day. But then I remembered what Tom had said about coming to the house this morning to officially hand in his notice, and if there was a chance to see him, I wanted to take advantage of it, so I left Edith to her task and was prepared to fly down the stairs to the Servant's Hall—but was stopped by Papa.

Apparently he was anticipating this. He had gone to my room, and upon not finding me there, had immediately gone to the Servant's Hall and demanded to know where I was (and if Tom had been by). I must confess I was shocked to discover that it is not all the gossip in the Servant's Hall, especially considering how I had kissed Tom in full view of Thomas last night. Yet I am guessing that it is Carson's doing, keeping a "tight lid" on the whole matter, and I'm sure Papa has a hand in that as well. No doubt they are hoping that by not saying anything, the entire matter will just simply disappear…or that I will change my mind.

I'm glad to disappoint them. And if I must, I will go to each and every member of staff and tell them to their face that Tom Branson and I are getting married. I have no shame, and neither should they! Tom is a good man; very clever and will do great things, of this I have never doubted. Also, he makes me happy; happier than I ever could have imagined, and he gives me courage, strength, hope, and love.

And he loves me, which is the most important thing of all. He loves me and has promised to devote every waking minute to my happiness. What more could a woman want for a husband? What more could a father want for his daughter? I am proud to call Tom Branson my fiancé, and will be even prouder when we are married and I can call myself "Mrs. Branson".

And scandal is merely created in the way in which people react to something. Alright, I'll admit that my engagement and marriage to Tom is, shall we say, "unorthodox", but any "scandal" attached to it needn't last if Mama and Papa welcome and embrace the both of us! Really, it will be to them that people will look, and if they see two people who are HAPPY for their daughter, who are GLAD for the decisions she has made and who SUPPORT them…then any whispers amongst gossip hounds will soon disappear, because how can judgment be passed if there is no shame to be had?

I just…I wish…

…

…

_Why_ is it so difficult to understand?

I'm happy. _Tom_ makes me happy! And the life I can have with him is the life _I want!_ Isn't that what matters in the end?

Last night, Papa raged that he would "not allow his daughter to throw away her life". Oh Papa, WHY CAN'T YOU SEE THAT BY MARRYING TOM I AM DOING _THE OPPOSITE!?_ I would be throwing away my life if I stayed here, and waited for someone like Larry Grey to propose marriage, before wasting the rest of my life as the future Lady Merton with a husband I despise, while living a falsehood under the pretense that "this is what proper ladies do".

It may sound overdramatic, but I would rather die than face such a future. And if that is what I must say to my family to…to get them to understand, then so help me, I will!

…

Papa _ordered_ me to go back to my room—he actually ordered me, as if I were one of his servants. Lord, how tempting it was to defy him and try to push past him, but I didn't. Logic told me that if I tried to do something like that, he would do something drastic, like lock me away or worse…try and have Tom arrested. So with anger boiling in my blood, I clenched my jaw and turned around and marched back to my room…with him at my heels.

It wasn't until we were inside and the door was shut, that he spoke.

Or shouted, really.

Oh Papa…

It was much of the same from the previous evening. He tried to calm himself, tried to "sound" reasonable, by asking me to explain myself to him and why I would want to do something like this (and by "this" he meant "bring scandal and ruin upon our family"). I tried to explain as calmly as I could that I wasn't bringing "scandal" or "ruin", that I was merely following my heart and that I loved Tom! He began shouting again, accusing me of being selfish, that I was "bringing shame upon Matthew and Lavinia's wedding", and "destroying the future happiness for my sisters", and "breaking my mother's heart", before proceeding to tell me how Mama had cried and cried long into the night.

…

And I will not deny that it hurt. It hurt to hear him say those things, because the last thing I want to do is upset anyone. I certainly do not take any delight in making my mother cry.

But…it hurt even more to know that he was saying those things as a means to make me feel ashamed of my feelings. That he was using the love I have for my family as a weapon against me…and that he _knew_ what he was doing!

…

I can't even begin to put into words the sorrow that knowledge brought me…or the anger.

He then proceeded to mutter about how this was all some horrible joke, a flight of fancy, a delayed adolescent phase that I was going through now, because the War had somehow "robbed me of my youth". I angrily snapped back "well which is it? Am I purposefully being selfish and taking delight in destroying the Crawley family name? Or have I just gone mad and like Alice, we are tumbling down the rabbit hole?"

He glared at me and told me not to take such a tone with him, to which I hotly responded that I did not care for the tone he was taking with me! This earned a shocked face, before muttering something about "how did this happen? Where did we go wrong? What's happened to you? You're not the daughter I once knew!"

…

…

Oh Papa…clearly…clearly I am not the daughter you _ever_ knew, if my behavior, my thoughts, my choices are so foreign and hard for you to understand.

…

I was exhausted, and so frustrated, and I was trying so hard to hold my temper, to keep myself from shouting and screaming and breaking down and crying. No, no, I was not going to give him that satisfaction! I was not going to give ANY of them my tears!

After some moments of silent pacing, Papa then sat down and tried a new approach, appearing calm once again, and began to speak to me as if I were some foreign dignitary and we were in the midst of negotiations. I suppose that's fair, since in his eyes, "I'm not the daughter he once knew". He tried to calmly explain the "disadvantages" of such a marriage, how I would be refused in certain circles, how I would not receive any invitations to any future balls or parties, that Society would have nothing to do with me, that I wouldn't even be allowed to attend court.

…To which I told him that his threats were hollow and that I honestly couldn't care less.

I think he would have begun shouting at me again if Granny hadn't walked in at that point.

Oh Granny…

…

I will admit that her approach was better than Papa's; just like last night, she tried to appear sympathetic to my feelings as if she understood what I was going through, before proceeding to patronize me by equating my love for Tom to the sort found in a silly gothic romance.

Lord, how my head hurt then. It began pounding second Papa ordered me up to my room, and at that point I swear it had become a migraine.

I just…I couldn't believe she was saying this! Didn't she hear what I said last night? _Didn't they _both_ hear? _Tom and I _have_ a plan! He's a journalist now, he has a job, and so will I (hopefully soon) and as we wait, I'll stay with his mother; it's perfectly respectable! Also, I think the entire matters shows a great deal of credit for how much thought we put into it, especially considering that a few months ago, I had made the mad suggestion of eloping to Gretna Green. While I will not deny there is still a part of me that wishes we had done that (at least then we would both be married and not have to endure this temporary separation) but…by not eloping, it has given us the luxury of planning and preparation, which I think shows a great deal of responsibility on our part.

But no. No, apparently no one heard or understood that last night, or at least Granny and Papa didn't. And if Granny's patronizing wasn't bad enough, it only became worse when she tried to "to be fair", mentioning Tom's "values", which were summed as simply being a "good driver".

I don't know what it was that made me snap. So many things contributed to it, from my worsening headache to my frustration that they refused to hear what I had to say, to Granny's remark about Tom being a good driver, as if that's ALL he is! But whatever the answer, I couldn't stand to hear another word and shouted at them both, "I WILL NOT GIVE HIM UP!"

…

…

In a perfect world, they would both have left me be. Actually, in a perfect world, they would have blessed my decisions and supported them, but we do not live in a perfect world, so not only did they continue to whole-heartedly disagree with my choices, but they also didn't walk away. Papa dismissed my outburst as childish by telling me "not to be rude to my grandmother", to which Granny remarked that I wasn't being rude, "just wrong".

…

…

I couldn't take another moment. I squared my shoulders and looked them straight in the eyes and gave them MY conditions, because I was and am sick and tired of hearing theirs.

I said I would stay for one week, which is a few days extra that what Tom and I had originally planned, but I hope and pray he will understand (and if money is an issue, well…we'll think of something), but I said I would stay for one week so as not to "bring scandal and ruin" upon Matthew and Lavinia's wedding, as well as to dismiss any rumors that no doubt will soon start to spread if not already, about my "running away with the chauffeur". I then announced that when that week is up, Tom and I will leave for Dublin where we shall be married and anyone who wishes to attend will be most welcome, even though right now I am feeling quite the opposite of welcoming to my family.

Papa rebuked the suggestion (I suppose we really were enemies negotiating terms), to which I asked if he would refuse my own sisters to attend, and before he could say anything final about that, Granny was quick to stop him. He then tried one final threat…telling me that there would be no money and that my life would be very different from this moment on.

…To which I earnestly replied, "Well bully for that!"

And I meant it. I did, bully for my life being very different from the one I have now! Bully for having to work hard, for living in a smaller house, for not having any servants to wait on you, dress you, clean for you, cook for you—bully for struggle, bully for hardship, bully for _all those things!_

…And bully for living the life I want, doing the work I enjoy, and married to the man I love! _Bully for ALL of that!_

…

…

I walked out then. I pushed past the both of them, each standing and looking shocked by my response, grabbed my diary and pen on the way out, and marched out of the house and headed straight for the gardens, and I did not stop until I had put a good distance between myself and the house…and here is where I sit, writing all this down furiously, wondering and waiting if Papa will come and drag me back or send someone to do it for him.

God it's tempting to just…walk away right now, not even bothering to pack anything, just…leave and go to the Grantham Arms and beg Tom to take me to Liverpool right now so we can board a ferry and go to Dublin today.

At the very least it's tempting to simply go to the Grantham Arms and…and just be with him. To unburden my frustrations, to openly release my tears, to rest my aching head against his chest…to feel his arms, strong and warm, around me again. Yes…I want that very, very much.

…

But…but I won't. At least not yet. It's too soon, and no doubt Papa will be expecting it. I'm sure he's having someone watch the Grantham Arms like a hawk for him, ready to send him word if they catch sight of me anywhere near the inn, and who knows what will happen then. Tom says he won't leave without me and that not even the King himself could drag him away, but…I don't want to risk him getting arrested or anything like that. After all, the last thing he needs is a black mark like that on his name that could negatively affect his new job. No…no I can be strong—I WILL BE strong for the both of us, and we will ride this thing through. And…and who knows, maybe…maybe something will happen between now and Matthew's wedding that will soften their hearts and let them accept us?

…

Of this, I can only pray.


	162. Things Not Meant to be Seen (or Heard)

_We're getting to the nitty-gritty sections of 2x08 that deal with the Spanish Flu. I debated for a while about how to write this chapter, and settled on the events as you will see below, mainly because I thought it will make for some great conversations later between characters. But anyway, here is Sybil dealing with the rest of her day *after* the big fight in her room with Violet and Robert. Also, in this story, for some reason I imagined Lavinia was staying at Downton since it's a few days before the wedding. I know that in the episode she's still staying at Crawley House, but for this story, she's moved into Downton to start to "avoid" seeing Matthew because of the wedding. Also, I had a few other characters say a few things that are moments of foreshadowing for their own futures. But enough about that, THANK YOU FOR READING!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Sixty-Two<strong>

Surprisingly, the rest of Sybil's day passed with very little drama. After her arguments with both her father and grandmother and the retreat into the gardens, she eventually made her way back to the house for luncheon, although like at breakfast, she had very little appetite.

Once again, her father was absent, as was her mother, who according to Mary who she finally saw for the first time that day, was still feeling very fatigued since late last night, and felt it best to take a tray in her room. Sybil bit her lip as she listened to her sister; good heavens had her news really driven her mother to illness? Her mother was not one for "dramatic fainting fits" or anything of the sort, but then again, her mother had never had to deal with such news before so…how was Sybil to know how her mother would react? She had always thought that her mother, while shocked at first, would come around; after all, be it because of her "American blood", Cora Crawley was quite "liberal" when it came to raising her children. Surely she would care more about her daughter's happiness than what Society had to say? Still...Sybil knew she would feel a great deal better if she could at least see her mother and look into her eyes.

Lavinia joined the three Crawley sisters for luncheon, although Sybil thought she seemed a bit paler than usual, as well. Lavinia put on a pretty smile and was courteous, but she never said anything or made any reference to the previous evening; she simply ate her food in silence, while occasionally answering a question that either Mary or Edith would venture forth about the wedding, or to get her opinion about a gift that had arrived.

Sybil couldn't deny that she was impressed with the way Mary was handling the upcoming wedding. Her face did little to betray how she really felt, but Sybil knew where the cracks lay and to look for them to find the true emotions her sister harbored. She couldn't help but admire her sister for her "English stiff-upper lip", as well as admonish her for giving up. How had this happened? _WHY_ had this happened? Why were both her cousin and her sister who clearly still loved each other going about the business of marrying _other people?_ She would never understand…

Luncheon passed and Lavinia rose and decided to go and see Isobel. Isobel had been the only member of the family who hadn't been there the previous evening, and she found herself wondering if her cousin now knew the truth about what had really happened? She thought about accompanying Lavinia and telling Isobel herself (surely her cousin who had supported and championed for her to become a nurse would do the same now?) however any further thought on the subject was interrupted by Mrs. Hughes, who came upon the four of them in the Hall, needing to speak with their father at once, as well as looking most agitated.

Apparently Carson had fallen ill and Mrs. Hughes, who had found him bent over in the butler's pantry, ordered him straight to bed. It was of the housekeeper's opinion that he would not be able to serve that evening, and though Carson protested (as he would) at first, eventually he conceded to Mrs. Hughes, so long as Molesley could take his place.

Sybil's head was spinning at the news. Was this simply another case where Carson's stress had gotten the better of him? Or was there something…more to it?

Mary looked very concerned by the news, and Sybil noticed how pale her sister's face became. She knew her sister was disappointed that Carson would not be leaving with her and Sir Richard to serve as butler for whatever house the decided to purchase, and that they had not necessarily "parted well". But Sybil always knew that Mary would come around and "forgive" Carson, however based on the somewhat panicked expression that she wore, it was clear that the figurative "hatchet" had not yet been buried.

"Does Edith need to go and fetch Dr. Clarkson?" Mary volunteered her sister, however Edith didn't argue, in fact she looked most eager to help if she could.

"No, no, I…I don't think that will be necessary," Mrs. Hughes muttered, although Sybil found herself frowning at the housekeeper's words; there was something she wasn't sharing with them.

"I'll go up and have a look at him, if you'd like?" she volunteered, stepping forward.

Edith looked uneasy. "Sybil, do you think that's wise? What if…" her voice trailed off, partially because of the icy glare Mary was shooting her way.

Sybil understood her sister's concern. She had been reading the papers, she knew about the cases of Spanish Flu that were striking villages and hospitals all over the country. It was a possibility, certainly, that Carson could be suffering from such an affliction. But at the same time, it was just as possible that the poor man was suffering from yet another case of too much stress.

"If he needs a doctor, I should know," Sybil told the Downton housekeeper with great confidence. She had never worked or treated a patient with such a disease, but based on what she had read, she knew what symptoms to look for.

"Thank you, milady," Mrs. Hughes murmured, looking both grateful, as well as concerned. "I still need to tell his Lordship—"

"I'll do that," Mary volunteered. "And since Lavinia is going to Crawley House, she can inform Molesley, yes?"

Lavinia, who had been standing silently by lifted her head to attention and quickly nodded. "Of course," she answered, trying to look helpful.

"What about me?" Edith asked, clearly wanting to help as well.

"There is still work to be done in the drawing room," Mary informed, in a tone that dared anyone to argue with her. "Besides," she added, glancing at Sybil briefly. "We'll need you nearby, in case Dr. Clarkson is required…seeing as you're the only other person here who can drive."

Sybil felt her cheeks burn, but she refused to give Mary the satisfaction of looking ashamed, since in truth she didn't.

Everyone went about their tasks as planned. Sybil went to Carson's room, checked his pulse, listened to his heart, and took his temperature. He was very warm and perspiring quite a bit. She also took note of the strange way in which he was breathing. She didn't care for it. Still, instead of jumping to conclusions (and causing a panic) she informed Mrs. Hughes, who had come to see if she needed anything, to heat up some milk and add cinnamon to it, while she fetched him an aspirin. It was a simple remedy that she had read about, and would do the trick in treating the butler for the time being. Still, Sybil decided to sit and would keep an eye on him, only leaving until much later, after being relieved by Mary.

"Well?" Mary asked, looking anxious.

Sybil sighed. "The aspirin has helped with his fever, but…I'm not comfortable with how he's breathing; it seems very labored…"

"Then that settles it!" Mrs. Hughes announced, lifting her chin. "We ring for Dr. Clarkson and have him come at once!"

Although the good doctor was not able to come at once. Naturally he was busy seeing to other patients, but as soon as he was able, he would come straight away. Pratt would fetch him, after driving Granny, Matthew, Lavinia, and Isobel up to the house.

There wasn't anything further she could do for Carson, and really, the man was in the most capable hands of Downton housekeeper, so with a sigh, Sybil returned to her room to change for dinner. Her parents had avoided her enough at mealtimes today; she'd like to see them try to ignore her at dinner.

She dressed herself (she was rather good at it now, even with her more elegant gowns), and proceeded to go downstairs, wanting to be one of the first people in the drawing room, proving to everyone that she had and felt no shame at all for the decisions she had made, including the man she was going to marry.

As she made her way down the corridor, she saw O'Brien walk out of her parent's room…the door not quite shutting all the way…and even though she told herself to keep walking, to keep walking, to not pause and listen, just keep walking…her feet and ears betrayed her they stilled just beyond the room and listened to the conversation taking place.

"What do we do next?" her mother sounded most fatigued.

"God knows!" her father thundered, similarly to how he had spoken to her that morning. "This is what comes of spoiling her! The mad clothes, the nursing—what were we thinking!?"

Sybil stiffened at his so-called "insults". They hurt far more than any of the words he had hurled at her that morning. She felt her jaw tremble, and she fought the urge to burst into tears, as well as burst into the room and give her father a piece of her own mind—

"That's not fair; she's a wonderful nurse and she's worked very hard."

Sybil froze at her mother's defense. A small smile lifted at the corners of her mouth, and she bit her lip in an attempt to keep her tears at bay_. Oh Mama, thank you for noticing…_

"But in the process she's forgotten who she is!"

"Has she Robert? Or have _we_ overlooked who she _really_ is?"

Oh how she wanted to hug her mother. _She understands! She realizes who I am! Oh Mama, forgive me for ever doubting—_

"If you're turning American on me, I'll go downstairs," her father groaned, giving a very frustrated and resolute sigh, and Sybil realized based on the sound of his footsteps that he was about to leave the room!

She quickly dashed around a corner before the door opened and flattened herself as best she could against the wall, holding her breath and waiting as her father passed by. She lingered there for a moment, wondering if her mother would soon be following, but heard no such movement.

Despite the horrible words that her father had uttered, Sybil found herself beaming all because of the words her mother had spoken in her defense.

_Tom was right. They will come around, or at least Mama will—she's on her way!_ Perhaps it was a bit early to start celebrating, but she couldn't help but smile and feel hope rise in her heart. _She thinks I'm a wonderful nurse; she's aware of how hard I've worked! She was against the whole notion back when it was suggested, but now…now she sees that this is who I am, who I have always been! But now she's aware of it…and…and surely she will embrace Tom as well! _

Oh it was tempting to wait for her mother, to go downstairs with their arms linked, hugging her and thanking her from the depths of her heart for her love and her willingness to listen. However, Sybil didn't want to embarrass her mother either, and knew very well that the conversation she had just stumbled across had not been meant for her ears. No, she was guilty of eavesdropping, and if her mother was made aware, she might resent Sybil, and the last thing Sybil needed was further resentment from her family.

So with a resolute sigh, she proceeded to go downstairs to the drawing room, where her father was standing in a corner, his back to her and already drinking a brandy, while Matthew stood awkwardly to one side, looking unsure if he should attempt to engage her father in conversation, or play it safe and join Lavinia and his Cousin Isobel by the fire, where Granny happened to be sitting.

Upon seeing her, Isobel rose to her feet, a sweet smile on her face and Sybil nibbled her lip and tentatively returned the smile, taking the woman's offered hands as she held them out to Sybil as she approached.

"I understand…" Isobel murmured, glancing over her shoulder at the others. Her father still remained where he was with his back to the room, and Granny seemed to be trying to calm Molesley, who was fussing over the type of wine she was being served. "I understand that congratulations are in order?" Isobel continued in a soft voice, her smile sincere and genuine, and Sybil once again felt her heart lift. Not that she had any doubts that Isobel would be welcoming and accepting of them, but still…she could have used her cousin last night.

"Thank you," Sybil murmured back, blushing and smiling and looking down at her feet somewhat bashfully.

Edith and Mary entered the room then, and a cheery façade soon fell over everyone. _They're all pretending that last night didn't happen,_ Sybil thought sadly. Despite the feelings of hope that were coursing through her at the words murmured by her cousin and mother, she couldn't help but feel bitterness at this display of willing ignorance.

"_Be strong,"_ she heard Tom's voice murmur in her head. _"Give them time; they'll come around." _ And until they did, she would sit straight and tall and show a courageous heart, one that had no regrets whatsoever.

Her mother finally entered the drawing room, and Sybil couldn't help but grin brightly at the sight of her…only to frown upon seeing how…tired, her mother looked. Yes, very tired, and rather pale, as well…

They moved into the dining room then, and a somewhat awkward silence seemed to fall over the room. Unlike the drawing room, where people could move about and hide in various corners, away from other conversations, here in the dining room, it was practically impossible to avoid the eyes of another, even if they were at the other end of the table, much less avoid all conversations. And since her and Tom's announcement was the proverbial "elephant in the room", it was rather amusing, in some respects, to see everyone try to avoid discussing it.

Leave it to her grandmother to be the one to finally broach the subject.

"I'm glad you're here, Sybil dear," she began. She sat directly across from her and was wearing that infamous "polite smile" that one only wore for the purposes of seeming polite, rather than actually being polite. "I was afraid you would have a tray in your room."

Sybil opened her mouth to respond, but was beaten to it by her father.

"Maybe you should have done?"

Her eyes narrowed and she glared at him across the table; he didn't even have the courtesy to look her in the eye as he spoke. _Good Lord, I can't stand passive-aggressive behavior!_

She lifted her chin and reached for her wine glass before replying. "Why? I'm not eloping like a thief in the night," she innocently defended. She glanced at her sisters out of the corner of her eye, and couldn't help but smile as she added, "I might have once, but Mary and Edith talked me out of it."

Both Mary and Edith's eyes went wide at the revelation, and Sybil couldn't help but softly giggle at the pale shade which they both turned, before a dark red began to flood their cheeks. _Now we're even_, she thought triumphantly, before sipping her wine.

"Oh? The plot thickens," their grandmother remarked, sounding rather amused at the hidden story behind Sybil's words.

It was at that moment that Cousin Isobel decided to offer her own opinion. "After all, Sybil's had enough time to think about it—"

But she was interrupted by her own son. "Mother; it is not for us to have an opinion."

Sybil made a face and rolled her eyes at Matthew's interruption. She understood that he was trying to keep the peace, but at the same time, her cousin should have a chance to voice her thoughts! Especially since they were thoughts that seemed to support Sybil's decision.

However the clink of a decanter against Matthew's wine glass brought everyone's attention to Molesley, who seemed to be perspiring…just like Carson.

_Oh no…_

Matthew noticed as well, because he quickly enquired if Molesley was feeling well, and even though her cousin's valet was trying to reassure them that he was, Matthew did not hide his doubt. However, it wasn't Molesley who asked to be excused…but someone else.

"The awful truth is, I'm not quite alright, and I'm afraid I'm going to ask you to excuse me."

Sybil whipped her head to the direction of her mother, her eyes wide at the words she had just heard.

_What? No…no, not Mama…_

Despite his cold demeanor all evening, her father suddenly looked to be full of concern, and quickly rose from his chair. "I'm so sorry; would you like us to call Dr. Clarkson?"

Her mother was starting to protest, and Sybil was prepared to argue otherwise, fear slowly rising in her heart as she looked at her mother, trying to assess what was bothering her just by looking at her, but Anna announced then that Dr. Clarkson would be coming by, just as Sybil knew he would be to check on Carson. Now he would have another patient.

"I'll bring him up when he arrives!" Edith told their mother, putting on a brave smile. Their father murmured something about sleeping in his dressing room for the evening, but Sybil didn't listen very closely, she kept her eyes on her mother as she turned to smile and bid them all a goodnight, before leaving the dining room.

She didn't seem so bad, Sybil thought. She certainly wasn't perspiring the way Carson had been…or Molesley, come to think about it. But still…it alarmed her, and she found herself debating about whether or not she should go and see if she could help.

"Sybil?"

She swallowed and looked to right, where Mary was sitting. Her sister was looking at her intently, and without having to say a word, reached over and touched her hand. It was an amazingly calming gesture, and Sybil did feel herself relax slightly, although her mind was still creating awful scenarios as to what could be troubling her mother.

_Please…please don't let it be Spanish Flu; please Lord, please…_

"Well!" Cousin Isobel's voice filled the room, her cheerfulness sounding rather forced. "Lavinia, dear, why don't you tell everyone what we were discussing this afternoon?"

Lavinia put on a little smile and nodded her head, but Sybil's eyes narrowed slightly as she thought that the young woman also looked a little…tired. Still, she managed to tell her story about the plans she and Isobel had made about the house in Manchester they would set up, once she and Matthew were married.

"Manchester?" Robert gasped, turning his attention now to Matthew and looking rather surprised by this information.

"Um…yes," Matthew sighed, looking down at his plate and clearing his throat. "That is something I would like to discuss with you, actually…after dinner."

Sybil bit her lip and glanced out of the corner of her eye at Mary, who continued to eat and nibble on her food in silence.

Violet looked down at her now empty wine glass and frowned, before lifting her head to see where Molesley had gone. She then turned her attentions to Matthew and decided to voice her own opinion. "What in heaven's name is there to do in Manchester?"

"Granny!" Mary hissed, looking across the table at their grandmother with embarrassed astonishment.

"I mean nothing against the city, it is a fine place, or so I am told," Violet went on with a slight wave of her hand. She then turned to Lavinia who was dabbing at the corners of her mouth with napkin...still looking fatigued. "Why would you want to go there when you have Crawley House here in Downton?"

"Perhaps she would like a place of her own?" Mary answered, surprising Sybil and possibly the rest of the table with her words. "Nothing wrong with that, is there?"

Their grandmother lifted her own eyebrows in question, and Matthew didn't quite seem to know what to say. As for Sybil, she wondered if perhaps Mary's response was due to the fact that she would feel it easier to get by without Matthew and Lavinia so close…or if there was more to it. Was her sister voicing her own personal thoughts? Was Mary, like her to a point, eager to just…get away? It seemed strange; Sybil knew how much Downton meant to Mary, yet if Mary did see through with her marriage to Sir Richard, she would be leaving to establish and set up her own house.

"Believe me, I've tried to reassure them that they can stay at Crawley House," Isobel chimed in. "Or that I be the one to back to Manchester, so that—"

"Where is Molesley?" Violet interrupted, looking around for the man and paying no heed to Isobel. "I would simply like a little more wine, and the man is nowhere to be seen?"

Just then, as if on cue, Anna appeared, holding the decanter and being quick to refill the Dowager Countess' glass. She apologized for Molesley's absence, and explained that he wasn't feeling very well, which caused a shiver to run down Sybil's back.

"Molesley too?" her father murmured. "Good heavens, everyone is dropping like nine pins."

Just then Sybil's attention was drawn to her sister, who had murmured Lavinia's name in a concerned tone.

"You know…I'm not feeling very well at all either," Lavinia apologized as she gently pushed herself away from the table. She asked if it were possible for her to go and lie down, and Mary was quick to answer, rising to her feet and putting a gentle hand on Lavinia's back, guiding her out of the dining room.

Matthew stood, his face pale and his own eyes filled with concern as he watched them go, and now Sybil truly wondered if perhaps she should dispense with dinner altogether and go and follow and see what she could do. However, it was Isobel who rose to follow, and so once again, Sybil remained behind, feeling rather helpless.

"Wasn't there a masked ball in Paris, when cholera broke out?" her grandmother asked as soon as Mary and Lavinia had left the room. "Half the guests were dead before leaving the ballroom!"

Sybil stared at her grandmother in shock and dismay.

"Thank you, Mama," her father sarcastically muttered, before making some comment about how her question had cheered them all up immensely. Sybil had no more appetite, and so she rose, putting her napkin down and moving to follow the others.

"Sybil, where are you going?" Violet asked.

"I'm still a nurse, Granny," she sighed, pausing only to answer her grandmother.

"But the War is over!"

Sybil gritted her teeth. "That may be, but that doesn't mean all of my knowledge and training has gone away with it." Before they could say anything further or try to stop her, she left the room and turned towards the stairs to go up and see her mother, but paused in the Hall at the sight of Dr. Clarkson entering.

"Dr. Clarkson!" she greeted, before moving quickly to where he stood.

"Ah, good evening Nurse Crawley," he answered, which brought a small smile to Sybil's face. Indeed, of the titles she wore in life, this was the one she preferred. "I understand that Mr. Carson took ill earlier?"

"He did, but…others have also fallen ill since, including my mother."

Dr. Clarkson frowned. "Do you know her symptoms?"

She shook her head. "Other than fatigue, nothing seemed obvious. She wasn't perspiring the way Carson was earlier, however I have no idea if she's running a fever, or—"

"Well not to worry," the doctor reassured. "We'll get to the bottom of it."

Sybil smiled, feeling some relief for the first time since her mother announced that she wasn't quite well. "I did give Carson some aspirin, as well as warm milk and cinnamon—a basic remedy that I read about; though of course I don't know if its Spanish Flu or not."

"Wise to take precautions," Dr. Clarkson murmured. "And you did well in prescribing him that, Nurse Crawley," he added. "Let me see to her Ladyship first, and then I'll check on him."

Sybil nodded, glad that she had done the right thing and that it was met with the doctor's approval. Upon reaching her mother's room, O'Brien was already there, already tending to her and refused to leave. Sybil wasn't going to argue, however she did hover close by while Dr. Clarkson examined her mother. Edith entered the room shortly after, saying something about how Granny had left, and Matthew and their father were downstairs, lingering and wondering if they could come up. It was starting to get crowded in the room, and Dr. Clarkson politely informed them that it would be best to give their mother some space. Though they were reluctant, Sybil and Edith nodded their heads, murmured a goodnight to their mother who sleepily smiled up at them, before settling against her pillows and took the medicine Dr. Clarkson had brought.

"I suppose there's nothing more to do than go to bed ourselves," Edith sighed when they were outside the room. "Although I doubt I'll get much sleep."

Sybil nodded, feeling the same way. She still felt there was more she could do, but she was also aware it was probably best not to push. So with a heavy sigh, she kissed Edith's cheek and murmured a goodnight, before wandering down the corridor to her room.

"Sybil!" Edith called, before she entered. "Don't you get sick!"

Sybil couldn't help but smile and nod her head. "I shall do my best not to."

Edith lifted her chin. "See that you do; I don't think Tom will be very pleased."

_No, he wouldn't._ Sybil sighed. Oh Tom; how she desperately wished she could see him, but at the same time, she was glad he wasn't there, just for the simple fact that hopefully that meant he wouldn't succumb to any sickness himself.

In her room she changed for bed by herself, although sleep was the furthest thing from her mind. She could try reading, of course, but…she doubted her mind would be able to concentrate. There was always packing, but…no, no, if her father or anyone came into her room and saw her with a suitcase or trunk ready to go, that could perhaps agitate things further. Which really only left her one option: writing.

She moved across her room to her desk and sat down, prepared to take out her diary and scribble a few notes about the rest of her day since that morning—but was stopped short at the sound of…music?

Sybil's brow furrowed. Yes…yes that was music she was hearing! Faint, but…distinct. Where on earth…?

The gramophone. Of course, she had forgotten all about the gramophone that Lavinia and Mary were trying earlier. That must be where the music was coming from! But…why was it playing? Who was playing it?

Despite her better judgment, Sybil picked up her dressing gown and threw it over her nightgown and carefully opened the door and peeked out into the corridor. No one was there, and really, the only people who would be moving about upstairs right now would be housemaids, so she stepped out and followed the music, wondering if it had alerted anyone else?

She paused at the railing that overlooked the Hall below…and watched with wide eyes at the sight of her sister…_dancing_ in the arms of Matthew!

_No, no, it's not what you're thinking, they're _just_ dancing, and that's all._ Yet…the embrace they were sharing did look rather…intimate.

Sybil swallowed, not sure what to do. _I shouldn't be here; I should go back to my room and pretend I didn't see this, because my imagination is running wild and I really shouldn't make something out of an innocent dance—although is anything between Mary and Matthew innocent?_ She closed her eyes and willed her feet to move, to turn and go, to leave the sight of them both and think nothing more of it, to stop—

Her eyes flew open at a sound and she looked across the balcony and saw a figure moving on the stairs. Lavinia! Oh gracious, wasn't she supposed to be lying down? Had Dr. Clarkson seen to her? And she would see Mary and Matthew! But…but nothing was happening, they were just dancing, after all, they—

Her eyes moved down to the dancing couple…and her hand flew to her mouth as she realized that Mary and Matthew were no longer just dancing…but kissing as well.

It was brief, because as soon as it happened, Lavinia came upon them and Mary and Matthew had broken apart and even though she could not hear their muffled voices over the music, she could only imagine the apologies or excuses that were being given…and she wondered how much Lavinia had seen.

Sybil's arms rose to hug herself and she stumbled further back down the corridor, before finally turning and fleeing to her room. Upon arriving, she locked herself inside, and then leapt onto her bed, burrowing under the covers and pulling them up over her head, as if trying to hide from the vision her eyes had seen.

_They're still in love with each other. I always knew they were, but…but now I know for certain. And yet…oh Lavinia. Poor Lavinia._

Tears stung her eyes, because she honestly didn't know what to think. She didn't feel happy like she always thought she would when Mary and Matthew realized the mistakes they had made and admitted their feelings again to each other. Oh good heavens, she was so confused! Wasn't this good? Wasn't this what she wanted? For Mary and Matthew to reconcile? But…but had they reconciled? Or was it just a stolen kiss? Would anything come of it? Or would they insist it was nothing and continue with this unending game of charades? And what about Lavinia? Sybil had never really given much thought to how this may affect Lavinia. She was sweet and kindhearted, and didn't deserve to be lied to, nor to be trapped in a loveless-marriage—

Oh God.

Sybil swallowed the lump in her throat and pulled the covers over herself even tighter. No…happiness was the last thing she felt right now. In truth, she felt sick…and she longed for Tom more than ever.


	163. The Messenger

_Hello again! ANOTHER UPDATE! I'm on a roll right now with this fic, and hope to update AT LEAST one more time in the next day or so. But anyway, after all the "excitement" happening at the house, it's time to explore what was happening with poor Tom back at the Grantham Arms as he's waiting things out. This was a fun chapter to write, because it gave me the chance to explore a friendship that we really didn't get to see too much on screen, but I do like to think that Tom got along with a majority of his colleagues, so here's an opportunity to explore that. Hope you enjoy and thank you again for reading and for all the lovely reviews! _

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Sixty-Three<strong>

His day had been eerily quiet.

He stayed in his room for the most part, stayed and waited to see if the police would come barging in, or if Lord Grantham himself would arrive, prepared to pummel him.

But he had no visitors. After returning from Downton that morning to officially hand in his notice, and after the somewhat awkward announcement in the Servant's Hall to all his now former colleagues that not only was he leaving Downton, but he was also going to be marrying Lady Sybil Crawley, he walked back to village, once again shocked and surprised that no one tried to stop him. In truth, he didn't know what was more surprising; the fact that twice now, he had left Downton after making a jaw-dropping announcement without any issue…or the fact that despite the twelve hours that had passed since the previous evening, no one outside of Anna, Thomas, and Mr. Carson knew what had happened.

He wished he could have seen her. He was hoping that by some chance they would have run into one another; that perhaps she would be waiting near the servant's entrance, or the garage, or just wandering the garden paths so when he came to the house, they could have stolen a moment together.

But it was not to be, and sadly, he wasn't surprised. No, as he had predicted, they would be keeping an extra close watch on Sybil (to the point, possibly, of locking her up). He prayed that wasn't the case, and his jaw cracked from the tension and anger at the very idea. He hated being apart from her, especially now that their secret was out in the open for all to judge and ridicule. However he needed to put his faith and trust in Sybil's strength, that she would be fine and could handle herself as he saw her do the previous night when she stood up and went toe to toe with the Earl of Grantham. He remembered the fire he saw in her, how it grew and kindled, refusing to back down despite her father's shouts. There were many moments when Tom felt blessed and proud to have this extraordinary woman's love, but last night may have been the greatest. Just as he had stated to Mr. Carson earlier that day, truly, he did take great pride in Sybil's love, and yes, he would work himself raw to be worthy of her, all the days of his life.

After returning to the Grantham Arms, he sat down and wrote a letter to Gwen, and eventually wandered downstairs to the pub on the main floor, where he had a small meal and then took a short walk to post his letter. He immediately returned to the inn, and went back to his room, spending the day trying to read and write, but mainly pacing back and forth in his room, watching the door and waiting.

By the time it had gotten dark and his stomach was growling for some supper, Tom concluded that at least for one more day, he was safe. No arrests or angry confrontations were going to be had that day, so he finally went back downstairs to the pub, lingering a little while after his meal, enjoying a pint of cider and smiling to himself as he remembered how Sybil surprised him in London, when ordering a pint for herself.

If anyone from the village had recognized him and wondered why the Downton chauffeur was there, they didn't say. He chose solitude and kept to himself in the pub, and likewise he was left on his own. He did glance a great deal at the inn door, waiting to see if anyone from the big house would come barging in, but like the rest of his day, nothing happened.

Eventually he returned to his room and decided after what felt like the hundredth attempt at trying to read the same two pages, that it was time to get some sleep. Although the idea sounded mad, trying to ease his anxiety and his mind from all the thoughts racing through it just long enough to fall asleep, he hoped that perhaps in his dreams, Sybil would come to him as she so often did, and for a few hours, he could lose himself in the bliss of their wedded life together in Ireland.

However, he hadn't even loosened his tie when a sharp knock was heard on the door.

He froze.

_It's happening._

He swallowed and glanced at the clock on a nearby table. It was quarter to eleven; a bit later than he had imagined, but really, what other explanation was there? Still…if someone had come to arrest him, wouldn't the police identify themselves? Wouldn't Lord Grantham just burst in without a second thought?

"Mr. Branson?"

Tom felt a shaky sigh escape his lungs, and he moved quickly across the room and opened the door, surprised to see John Bates of all people, standing on the other side.

"Mr. Bates?" he greeted, somewhat awkwardly, as he was unsure why his Lordship's valet was there. Still, at least it was a friendly face.

"I'm sorry if I've disturbed you…" Bates apologized, glancing just past Tom's shoulder and having a look at the room. "I know it's late—"

"No, no, it's alright," Tom reassured, stepping aside to let his friend in. "Please," he indicated, his hand gesturing to a nearby chair. "I'm just surprised; I've been sitting here all day, waiting and expecting someone to come knocking, so I admit I've been a bit 'on edge'," he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, trying to sound somewhat jovial both in an effort to ease his anxiety, as well as to bring some humor to the night.

Bates gave a small smile and nodded his head in understanding, before finally sitting in the offered chair. "I won't stay too long," he explained. "I just…I came by because…even though you are no longer an employee of his Lordship, I felt that you still had a right to know what was happening back at the big house."

Whatever attempt at humor he been trying to make immediately disappeared at the valet's words that seemed to ring forth an air of doom. "What happened? What is it?" he asked, crossing the room and practically gripping Bates' shoulders. "Sybil?" His mind began to paint every horrible scenario it could imagine; his sweet Sybil being locked away, starved, beaten, dragged off to some mysterious location with the hope that he would never find her.

Bates shook his head. "Lady Sybil is fine," he reassured. "I didn't see her a great deal today, but from what I did, she seemed…_determined_," he explained after a brief pause. "Yes, quite determined. She was holding her head high and looked strong and resolute."

Tom couldn't help but smile at that. Oh Sybil; yes, that sounded like the woman he loved. A shaky breath escaped his lungs and he released Bates' shoulders, offering a little apology before taking a few steps back. She was fine; of course she was. She was strong and determined, just as Bates had said. She wasn't going to let anyone, even her own father, bully or badger her or make her feel ashamed. And that would be just like her; holding her head high, daring anyone to sway her otherwise. No, he had nothing to fear when it came to her. If truth be told, he envied her confidence and courage.

He looked back at Bates and swallowed the nervous lump in his throat, trying again to calm the rapid beating of his heart. "Does it have to do with…me?" he asked. Had Bates come to warn him?

The valet shook his head. "Actually, Mr. Carson is determined to keep any sort of 'discussion' about what has happened at the bare minimum. And…I think his Lordship is of the opinion that if he denies it long enough—"

"It never happened," Tom muttered under his breath. His felt his jaw harden and he turned his face away, not wanting Bates to see the anger in his eyes at the thought of being belittled and dismissed by the Earl of Grantham. He had to watch his words; after all, he knew Mr. Bates saw his Lordship as more than just an employer, but as a friend as well.

"I came to tell you that Mr. Carson…has fallen ill," Bates explained.

Tom whipped his head back, his eyes wide. "Ill?"

Bates nodded. "Spanish Flu," he gravely murmured.

Tom's face went pale at the announcement. He had read so many stories about the pandemic and its devastating effects; it seemed that if the War hadn't claimed a man's life, the disease would. Indeed, there were many communities throughout Britain that were affected, whole villages even being quarantined to try and keep the sickness from spreading. And now it had come to Downton.

_Sybil…_

Oh no. She was there…she was exposed. What was to stop the illness from infecting her? And she was more at risk than anyone else because he knew Sybil, she was a nurse, she would WANT to help—she would insist upon it!

"Dr. Clarkson only just left," Bates went on to explain. "Her Ladyship has also taken ill and Miss Swire too."

Good God! Tom reached out to grasp the wall as he took in everything that his friend was telling him. Three cases of Spanish Flu, and all in the same day? And Sybil's mother amongst them? He felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. "W-w-what," he swallowed, trying to calm his breathing. "What…what does Dr. Clarkson say?"

Bates sighed and shook his head. "I don't know; Miss Swire was asleep when he arrived; he gave Lady Mary some instructions on seeing to her care; I believe Mrs. Crawley is staying at the house to see if she can help. As for her Ladyship, Miss O'Brien is keeping vigil, and his Lordship will sleep in his dressing room."

Tom didn't really care where his Lordship spent the night, however he did notice a troubled look come over the valet's face. His heart froze. "What? What is it?"

Bates looked up at him in surprise, and then quickly shook his head. "Nothing, just…I was only recalling a brief conversation I had earlier this evening with his Lordship; it's nothing, really."

It didn't seem like "nothing" based on the troubled look the other man wore, but Tom decided to take John Bates at his word. The man would be honest with him if he thought Lady Sybil was in any danger.

"Mrs. Hughes is seeing to Mr. Carson now, although Lady Sybil did tend to him earlier today," Bates explained, and Tom saw a small smile curl at the man's lips. "She did well, according to Dr. Clarkson. That much I did hear. He was very pleased with her treatment."

Tom smiled at this, although in truth it did little to ease his anxiety. She had still been exposed—she _was_ exposed by simply staying in that house! Who knows how many more cases would be found by morning? And knowing Sybil, she would want to be involved in all of them, seeing to everyone's care and treatment as best she could because she was like that!

_And that's what you love about her_. Yes, it was, but…but it frightened him! What if she became ill? Who would tend to her then? Who would nurse her back to health?

His jaw tightened and his fists clenched. Lord Grantham would have to barricade the door, and Tom didn't even think that would stop him from getting in to see his beloved. He knew nothing about nursing, in truth, he was much more squeamish and Sybil had teased him in the past about how he would turn green when she described in detail some of the things she had seen and experienced in her training. Yet he would sit by her side, keep vigil and dab her brow and hold her hand and do whatever it took to see her better. And no one would stop him, not even the whole of the British Army.

"I think she'll be alright, Mr. Branson," he heard Mr. Bates murmur, seeing the man rise from his chair and lean his weight on his cane. "I hope you don't mind me saying that Lady Sybil is 'made of sterner stuff' than most men I know."

Tom tried to smile at the man's words, although he was still fearful for his beloved's health and safety. "Aye, that she is," he answered, giving a small, thankful nod.

Bates sighed and reached out to grip Tom's shoulder, squeezing it in a gesture of reassurance. "We'll know more in the morning, and as the day goes on."

Tom nodded. "Thank you; for coming and telling me."

Bates smiled and nodded and began to move past him back towards the door. "I have no idea how this will affect the wedding on Saturday," he sighed. "If her Ladyship isn't well—let alone Miss Swire…"

The wedding. In all this talk about Spanish Flu, Tom had completely forgotten about Mr. Matthew's wedding. Yes, if the bride was ill, the wedding would be postponed. And what would that mean for his and Sybil's departure?

_Oh God, would you listen to yourself? For once, put your own selfish desires aside and think about what's happening! Her mother is sick—possibly dying, and all you can think about is taking her away?_

He was disgusted with his thoughts, however he knew that part of his anxiousness to get Sybil away was because he feared for her own health…and because he feared that the longer the stayed, the harder Lord Grantham would make it for them to be together.

_No, no, you need to stop worrying about that. She's not going to let him keep her prisoner. She will find a way to be with you if it comes to that. No matter what; she loves you…if anything, at least be assured of that. _

"I better be getting back," his friend sighed, his hand gripping the door knob. "But if there is any news—of any kind, I promise that either I or Anna will find a way to let you know."

Tom gave the man a grateful smile and nodded his head in gratitude. "Thank you," he whispered. "You're a good man, Mr. Bates; I am truly thankful and…and I know mustn't have been easy. No doubt his Lordship was firing every sort of curse at my name the other night."

Bates sighed and looked down. "He didn't say anything, actually, though I could tell something was the matter. I think I was more surprised by the fact that Anna had known about this for as long as she did and hadn't said anything, but I know she was acting on behalf of Lady Mary and thinking of Lady Sybil's interests."

Tom didn't quite know what to make of that, but chose to simply nod his head. He knew that Anna supported the both of them, based on the words she had said to him after he and Sybil had returned from their failed elopement, as well as what she had said this morning when he had come to hand in his notice. And even though Mr. Bates was a loyal servant to his Lordship, Tom had a feeling that the man bared him no ill will. Indeed, the valet was smiling to himself, as if recalling an old memory. "I think I had my suspicions all those years ago, when you made mention of seeing Lady Sybil in that daring frock of hers…or as you described, 'harem pants'?"

Tom felt his cheeks warm, but couldn't help but smile and sheepishly look down. "You were right; she was a vision," he murmured, repeating the words Bates had said to him all those years ago.

Bates smiled. "I remember how Anna couldn't stop talking about that frock; went on about it for days. She clearly admired Lady Sybil's spirit…still admires it…" his voice trailed off and Tom noticed that the man started to look troubled once again.

"Mr. Bates?"

He shook his head and looked back at Tom apologetically. "Sorry, I…" he paused, looked down at his hand on the doorknob, and seemed to be debating about whether or not to proceed with turning it and leaving the room. He gave a great sigh, and then lifted his head to meet Tom's gaze. "Anna wants me to go to Ripon tomorrow to get a special license."

Tom's eyes widened. "You're getting married?" He had been waiting for the two of them to make their announcement. It had been the source of gossip for a quite some time in the Servant's Hall: when would the head housemaid and his Lordship's valet get married? Now that the infamous Mrs. Bates was dead, people who didn't know the messy history between John and Vera Bates were wondering why it was taking so long? Tom didn't pry, although he couldn't deny he was curious. He knew that it looked…bad (to put it lightly) that the woman had died after a long bloody battle in keeping the divorce from happening. But he didn't know the details; Anna never said anything to him, and it wasn't his place to ask. Still…from the way Bates looked right now, this was not the face of man who seemed very excited about the prospect of finally being able to marry the woman he loved.

"It's complicated," Bates sighed, leaning his weight against the door. "I…I'm a suspect," he whispered, lifting his eyes and looking back into Tom's. "For Vera's death."

Tom swallowed. Yes, it did look very bad.

Bates sighed again and ran a hand through his hair. "I've only mentioned this to Anna; not even his Lordship is aware, but…" he looked back at Tom. "Vera was poisoned. With…with rat poison that I bought."

Tom's eyes widened with horror. It was getting worse.

"I swear, Mr. Branson, I didn't—"

"I know," Tom assured him, nodding his head, his eyes not blinking or leaving the other man's. "I believe you, Mr. Bates."

Bates smiled at this, though his face still showed a great deal of unease. "Vera…she…she wrote letters," he went on. "Letters talking about how she feared for her life, and…" he sighed and looked down. "I'm rather surprised that I continue to remain a free man," he confessed. "But…it's only a matter of time, if they have no other suspects."

Tom couldn't believe it. He didn't realize it was as bad all this. How had both he and Anna been able to keep such terrible news to themselves this entire time?

"I think Anna is aware that…that there is a very real chance that this could happen, meaning that I be arrested," he explained.

And now it all made sense. "And that's why she wants you to get a special license," Tom confirmed.

Bates nodded his head, his face looking tired and sad. "I shouldn't have come back…"

Tom stared at the man in confusion. "What?"

Bates sighed. "I shouldn't have come back; I should have stayed in Kirby-Moorside, or gone someplace else, I…I should have left the second Anna had discovered me—"

He was stopped short by the sudden grasp of Tom's fists gripping his lapels and giving him a harsh shake. "Would you listen to yourself!?" Tom hissed. "_Why_ would you want that!?"

"I'm no good to Anna!" Bates groaned. "I never have been! I—"

"Stop talking right now, Mr. Bates, or I swear I will not hold my fist back; I'm struggling enough as it is," he muttered with disgust, releasing his grip on the man and taking a step back. "Anna _loves_ you! She's loved you for years! Even before I came to Downton, it was clear she was in love with you! Everyone talked about the two of you! The 'love story between the valet and the housemaid'," he went on, recalling all the murmurs and wistful sighs between various lovesick housemaids. "And when you left all those years ago…" he had to pause and collect himself. It had happened at the same time his first proposal to Sybil had been rejected. He remembered returning to Downton from York that very night, broken and bloody after his unexpected pub fight, and how it was Anna who had discovered him, who had nursed his wounds, and who commiserated with him because she too had a broken heart. And yet she inspired him, gave him strength and courage to continue living and continue fighting for what he longed for, just as she was determined to continue loving John Bates, despite everything that had happened.

He had always admired Anna. Perhaps after Sybil, she was the strongest person he knew.

"I never thanked you…"

Tom was somewhat taken aback by Bates' words and looked at the man in confusion. "What?"

"I never thanked you," Bates repeated. "For…for how you…how you helped Anna, while I was away."

Tom shrugged. "You're welcome, but…she didn't need my help. She never did. She's fully capable—"

"I know," Bates murmured, a smile lifting at the corners of his mouth, despite the sad expression he still wore. "I just…it seems that all I can give her is misery—"

"You give her love," Tom interrupted. "And that's all she's ever wanted." And that was all Sybil wanted from him. He was no titled lord; he had no vast fortune or a grand estate that could match the majesty of Downton Abbey. He was poor Irishman, and even with the promise of this new job, the both of them would have to work hard to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. There had been moments in his past where he had given pause and wondered if he was doing right by Sybil, pursuing her when he couldn't give her even a smidgen of the comfort she was used to.

…And yet despite all that, she loved him. She loved him, knowing what he was, knowing what he would never be. She didn't want a life like Downton Abbey; she wanted him. She wanted his love. Which was good, because that was all he could give her right now (he didn't even have a house of their own to give her!) but she had assured him, many times, with words, in her letters, and in the kisses they shared…that his love for her was enough. So long as she had that, she didn't need any more.

_The rest is detail._

Bates finally broke the silence that had settled between them. "She asked me tonight, 'am I not as strong as Lady Sybil'?"

Tom looked back at his friend…and soon found himself chuckling. "She invoked the name of Sybil?"

Now Bates was laughing. "Indeed; I knew I was done for then."

They both laughed and the tension that had earlier filled the room began to melt away at last.

"I do love Anna," Bates murmured after a moment. "More than I thought was humanly possible. And…it still fills me with awe, that despite my past and all the hardship I've brought her…she still chooses me."

Tom smiled and gave a simple nod of his head. "I understand completely." And he did.

Bates smiled back. "I know…which is…which is why I was wondering if you would come with us, and serve as our witness?"

Tom's eyes widened. "Me?" he asked, surprised by the request.

Bates nodded. "I mean, I don't know when they'll give us word; I'm not sure how long these things take, but…if it happens before you and Lady Sybil leave—"

"I'd be honored," Tom answered, and he meant it. He had secretly hoped to be there to see his friends marry, and despite all the tension and worry that had fallen upon both men recently, this was a bright spot that offered glimmers of hope for the future.

Bates smiled and held his hand out to Tom, who quickly took it and shook it heartily. "Thank you, Mr. Branson…for many things."

Tom returned the smile. "You're welcome; and thank you, again, for coming here and letting me know about what's happening back at the big house."

Bates nodded. "As I said, if there is any news to give, of any kind, either myself or Anna will get you word."

Tom smiled and gave a nod of thanks, before opening the door for the Downton valet and seeing him out. They murmured their goodnights, and Tom watched as the man turned and walked away, before turning himself and shutting the door.

What a night. After a day of very little happening, the news of the evening had turned his world upside down. Spanish Flu had come to Downton, Sybil's mother was sick, Sybil herself was at risk of infection, and his friend had just revealed that it was possible he could be arrested for the murder of his estranged wife.

And he was completely helpless. There was nothing he could do about any of this, it was all beyond his power.

Except…

"Mr. Bates!"

Tom charged out of the room and ran down the stairs, catching the valet at the door to the inn. "Mr. Branson?" he asked, looking confused as Tom grabbed hold of his shoulder to stop him.

"Would you wait just a moment? I know it's late, but…please?"

Mr. Bates looked confused, but nodded his head. "Alright…?"

"Just…give me a moment; let me quickly write a letter, for Sybil. And if I do this, will you pass it on to Anna to give to her? Please? It's just…I have no idea when I'll be able to see her again—and I thought it was bad enough being parted from her earlier today, but now knowing everything that you've told me, I can't stop worrying and thinking—"

"Of course," Bates reassured, a calming hand once again falling on Tom's trembling shoulder. "I'll just wait here," he motioned to a nearby table.

Tom let out a long sigh of relief. "Thank you, Mr. Bates, thank you so much."

"You're welcome…and it's John."

Tom smiled at this, and nodded his head. He then turned on his heel and quickly went back to his room to pen a letter to his fiancée, hoping that for the moment, it would be enough to ease his worries of his heart, as well as provide her with any comfort that perhaps she might need as she tried to balance the weight of all these recent burdens.


	164. I Miss You

_Wait, didn't I just update earlier today? YES, I DID! So if you haven't read chapter 163, stop right now and read it first! _

_Hehehehe, sorry for the quick update (is that something to apologize for?) I just couldn't help myself; we all love a good love letter from Tom Branson, and that is what this is! Also, I want to thank everyone who commented on the last chapter and gave me their feedback on the Tom/Bates conversation/friendship. I always felt that Tom had formed some good friendships with his fellow DA colleagues; while I do think that Tom was closer to Anna than Bates, I think that the two men did like and respect each other for the most part (and probably bonded over their care and concern for William, who I always felt that Tom saw as a younger brother-at least in my headcanon!) Also, while I won't give too much away, Tom's "bonding" with Bates will be a plot point in Love's Continuing Journey. And I do think there are some parallels between the two ships, so that was what I was trying and hoping to convey! But I'll stop babbling now and let you get on with reading the chapter :oP THANK YOU AGAIN!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Sixty-Four<strong>

My darling,

Forgive the shortness of this letter. I wish it could be longer, but my messenger is patiently waiting and it is nearly midnight. I have been informed about everything that is happening at Downton—oh love, how I wish I could be there with you right now. My thoughts and prayers are with your mother, and Miss Swire, and even Mr. Carson, though I doubt he would welcome anything from me right now, even a prayer, but still…I am thinking of all of you, and praying for speedy recoveries, though I am confident that with your help, they are receiving the very best care possible.

Oh my love, how I wish I could hold you. I wish I could ease any burdens you might be feeling. I cannot deny that I am afraid. When I learned about the illness, my first thoughts were of you. I can't stop you from doing your duty, nor do I want to (and nor would you allow me if I tried!) but I can't help but worry for your safety. So know that I will also be praying for you. But I swear to God and all that is holy, nothing will keep me from storming that house and keeping vigil by your bedside if…well, I don't even want to write about it, let alone think about it, but I wanted you to know that. Nothing, not even the king himself, as I said to you before, will keep us apart.

But my arms still ache to hold you. My lips still crave the taste of your own. My skin burns with want to feel your touch. My eyes and my ears long to see your face, your eyes, your smile, and hear your voice and sweet laughter, sweeter than any music, wash over me once again.

I miss you, Sybil. I miss you so much. As odd as it may sound, this feels even harder than letting you go to London or York, and having to sit and wait for weeks or months on end for your return. The irony is that we're not so far away; and yet it might as well be the other end of the world.

I did come today; I handed in my notice and was surprised by how little anyone knew. You should know if you haven't been informed by Anna or anybody else, that I did announce our engagement to all the staff gathered in the Servant's Hall. Mr. Carson was angry at my presence, and ordered everyone to keep silent. Still, the truth of the matter is out there. I hope and pray I have not made things more difficult for you, but…I felt—I feel no shame. I love you, Sybil Crawley; I love you and want to shout it from the rooftops for the entire world to hear.

There was no struggle in my leaving. Perhaps they are all hoping that I will simply disappear. But I know that someone will be keeping watch, and because I am no longer an employee, if I step foot onto the grounds, I could be arrested for trespassing, if your father so wishes. However, as I said, nothing will keep me from you, even the threat of arrest. But…as much as it pains me, for the moment, at least for the next few days (unless my messenger brings me any news otherwise) I will remain here, waiting at the Grantham Arms for the time being. But please know, my darling, how much I miss you. God, how tempting it is right now to put this pen down and simply walk back; to sneak through the shadows and hide beneath that willow tree, watching your window and silently praying that you will come to it and find me again. But I won't, only because I know that you need the rest from your busy nursing.

Oh Sybil…do you know how much in awe I am of you? Of your strength? Your courage? Your determination? There's no one like you, man or woman; you are simply…extraordinary. And I pray that any children we are blessed to have will be just like you. You inspire me; you make me want to be a better person, in everything.

In a few moments I will be giving this letter to my messenger, and then I will prepare myself for bed…my second night in a bed that is not the one I have become so familiar with back in what was once my cottage. It's a larger bed; large enough for two, I would dare say. Last night was the first night I've ever slept in a bed like that. But even though I have the opportunity to sleep in such a bed, I know that I will keep to one side. Because how can I not, when that other side, those other pillows, are clearly meant for a head that is not my own…but yours?

I will lie down on my side, gaze at what would have been your side…and think of you...just as I did last night.

I'll think about your beautiful face, your sweet laugh, your tender smile. I'll think about the passionate suffragette, the inspiring nurse, and the daring earl's daughter who wore trousers not once, but twice! I'll think about how good you feel in my arms…how perfectly your curves, your shape, your frame fits against my own, like two puzzle pieces. I'll think about how delicious your lips are, how soft and smooth they feel against my own, and how I love the taste and feel of your tongue. I'll think about all these things...so that when I do close my eyes and fall asleep at last, I'll find you waiting for me in my dreams.

…And perhaps, if you think of me as I think of you…you will find me waiting for you? Because I will be there, my love. Perhaps in our sleep, in our dreams, we will find each other. I will hold you close, bury my nose in your hair, breathe in your sweetness, before bringing my lips to taste your skin. In my dreams…forgive me for being so bold, but in my dreams…I would make love to you. And if I dream about that…maybe, if you wish…you will to? I feel I can speak like this to you; after all, you told me that you couldn't wait for our marriage for…well, for this very reason, amongst others of course. And I feel the same.

I am sorry, my darling, but I really must stop here so that my letter can find its way to you. But remember…even though I am not there, I am with you. And I love you, so very much. Be brave my love, although I don't think I have to tell you that, because you already are. But be strong, be careful, be safe, and may God send healing mercies to everyone there.

I love you, my dearest Sybil.

Yours, always,

—Tom


	165. 1919: A Second Letter to Susan

_Remember Susan, Sybil's roommate from nursing school? I felt that during this time of waiting while caring for her mother, she would reach out to her. Also, it's important to keep in mind that the characters are writing/exchanging letters that we the readers don't always see; so if Sybil talks about how she's been in contact with Susan and keeping her abreast about everything that's happened (even though the last letter WE saw between them was BEFORE she and Tom tried to runaway) just keep in mind that correspondance has been maintained. :oP Anyway, here is a quick update; hope to have another one soon! Thank you again to the lovely reviews! (And I'm glad so many of you enjoyed Tom's letter!) Don't worry everyone, our OTP will meet again soon..._

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Sixty-Five<strong>

Dearest Susan,

For the first time in months, I wore my uniform again.

I remember how Granny thought I should get rid of it; she didn't see the point in keeping it. Mary had said something about "sentimental value" and I had gone along with it. Granny pursed her lips, but said nothing further on the subject. I'm glad I kept it though, especially now because…because…

…

…

Oh Susan…

…

I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the ink stains on this letter. I'm trying to keep myself from sobbing over it and ruining it, again. Would you believe this is the third attempt? The first time I couldn't make it past your name before I became a blubbering mess! But I am determined, now, on my third attempt, to finish this letter and have it posted to you as soon as possible.

I just…I need to talk to someone, someone who understands, who knows what it's like, being a nurse, and…

…

…

My mother has Spanish Flu.

There. There really isn't an easy way to say it, so I'll just be blunt. Last night…while we were having dinner, she…she began to look very tired. She hardly touched any of her food, and…and then she announced that she wasn't feeling well, and left the room and seemed fine then, but…but then I saw her before going to bed, and she seemed a great deal paler…and her temperature was rising, but the doctor came, examined her, gave her something to help with the fever, and her lady's maid stayed with her—perhaps the entire night, I'm not sure, but…when I left her room, despite how tired she looked, she still knew who I was! She still smiled at me, she could still speak, but now…now…

…

O'Brien (my mother's maid) came pounding on my door sometime before dawn, saying that I needed to come straight away, that my mother was getting worse. I threw on my robe and rushed out of the room as fast as I could, and oh Susan…the sight of her! Her hair was drenched in sweat and her skin was clammy to the touch! She was shivering as if embedded in ice, but her skin was burning! And then I stared in horror as O'Brien rushed to her side just in time to place a basin beneath her chin as she became violently sick. VIOLENTLY! Susan…I…I've never…

I mean, have you had to deal with many patients suffering from Spanish Flu? The cases that started being reported around Downton happened more _after_ my time as a nurse came to an end. Everything I know about the disease I've read in the newspapers, but I have never seen a person suffering from it…and…and it's awful. Truly, truly terrible to witness. And even worse when it's happening to someone you love…

…

…

...

Oh bugger it all, Susan, I can't stop myself! I'm sorry, I just…

…

…

I can't lose her! I…I feel…I feel as if I've only just gotten her to see…to understand…

…

Oh gracious, Susan, so much has happened since I last wrote to you; I'm not even sure I know where to start. Other than to confirm for you that…that Tom and I told everyone our desire and intentions to get married.

He's found a job; good Lord, you don't even know that yet, I just realized. These past few days have gone by so fast, my head is spinning! But yes, only…only a few days ago actually (it strangely feels longer), Tom received word from a newspaper called _The Irish Republic_; they want to hire him! In fact they were so impressed by his work, that they even sent him an advance! It's wonderful, Susan, oh you should have seen him, he was so happy! Finally, after all these months of searching, after so many submissions and receiving so many letters of refusal, FINALLY, he has found something, FINALLY, there is a paper out there who sees the amazing writer that he is. Oh Susan, I…I'm so happy for him, I'm so proud of him, I always, ALWAYS knew he would make something of himself, I never doubted that even when I was in denial about my own feelings, I never once thought that he wouldn't be more than "just a chauffeur". And now he is…and I can clearly tell this is something he loves. And…as I've said, I'm so happy for him. It's perhaps the one bright spot of this entire week.

Our plan had always been to tell my family the day after he received word that he had a job. We thought it would "look better", I suppose; him going before them and making his intentions known, but showing that we have a plan, that we are not "foolishly" rushing into things like we had started to do all those months ago when we attempted to run away together to Gretna Green. But no amount of "preparation" or explanation would suffice in easing their anxiety at the knowledge that I intend to marry a man who in the eyes of the British aristocracy is my "inferior".

Our news was met with anger, contempt, and a great amount of shouting from my father. He actually roared at the both of us about how he "wouldn't allow his daughter to throw away her life"—can you believe that!? IT'S _MY_ LIFE! How dare he speak to me like that, as if he controls my emotions, my thoughts, and every decision I make. And how dare he speak that way to Tom! How dare he belittle him like that! Oh Susan, I was—I still am, actually—so, so very angry at my father for refusing to hear our reasons, for SEEING reason! This life…I know it's a luxury, one that many people never experience, and I know I could be and can be accused of being selfish for wishing to turn my back on it, but…but it's not as "ideal" as some might think. It can be suffocating, and the truth of the matter is, it's not the life I was meant for.

When I came to York all those years ago; when I lived in that dormitory with you and went through training with you, when I endured Nurse Templeton's wrath, Nurse Andrews' censure, and Jane Hamley's bullying—THAT was when I truly felt…_alive_. That not only did my life have purpose, finally, but also…that this whole thing, being a nurse, living simply, depending on one's self to "get by" in the day to day routine of life…THIS was the life I was meant to live. The life I WANT to live.

And Tom completes that.

Oh please do not misunderstand; I love Tom. I have loved him for so long, no doubt even before I came to York (you knew, of course, the way you teased me! But go on, Lord it over me as much as you wish, you deserve it and so do I). What I'm trying to say is that I'm not simply marrying him because he can give me "this sort of life that I desire", but…but because he understands that. He understands _me_. He always has! He treated me like an equal even when he was wearing his fine livery and calling me "milady". He saw something in me that I was struggling to discover, _but he knew_…he knew that the things that made me different and caused me to stand out and perhaps even appear "odd" to others of my class (including my own family), _weren't_ odd. He recognized my desire to learn more about what was happening in the world, to better understand politics, and he had no problem in answering the endless array of questions I threw at him. And from the moment he handed me those pamphlets about women and the vote…oh Susan, is it possible that it started as far back then? Even if I wasn't in love with him at that point, my heart knew I'm sure of it; my heart knew that this handsome, radical Irishman was someone very special. My other half with whom I am complete.

So despite my father's protests, and all his hollow threats about how no one in London will have anything to do with me because I choose to follow my heart and marry the man I love and live the life I want…despite all that, as I shouted at my grandmother yesterday, "I will NOT give him up!"

…

Good Lord, that was only yesterday.

In one day my mother went from being perfectly healthy to incredibly ill. I…I know that my news and announcement had nothing to do with her illness, and yet…

…

…

Last night, before dinner, I happened to pass my parents' bedchamber. They were talking very loudly (or Papa was), and it was about me. My ears were burning and I shouldn't have eavesdropped, but how many people successfully walk away from a conversation that is being had about them? So yes, I listened…and I remember feeling my heart lift with hope as my mother said...as she said…

…

…She said that I'm a wonderful nurse.

…

Oh God, Susan…I…I don't think I've ever received a greater compliment! While it's nice to be told that you're wise, sweet, and beautiful, to overhear someone say that they think—no, that they BELIEVE you are wonderful at something you feel so passionate about, that you, yourself believes defines who you are...to recognize that and acknowledge it…and not just that, or not only that, because when my father began to protest to her remark, saying something along the lines that in my nursing I've "forgotten who I was", my mother defended me and asked him, "or have we overlooked who she really is?"

She understands, Susan! For the first time, I feel as if she is SEEING ME for whom and what I really am! Tom always has, but it's so…so…refreshing, that someone else sees it to.

…

Tom always had faith that they would come around. I still have my doubts about my father and grandmother, but…but hearing my mother speak so…and now seeing her like this, I just…I can't lose her, Susan! I love her, I love her so much and I don't think I've done a very good job in telling her that, or showing her that, and…oh Lord, I've made this all about me! Even if she didn't support me, even if she agreed with my father and everything he said, I still can't bear the thought of losing her! And I still need to tell her that I love her and how much she means to me.

After O'Brien woke me and brought me to her room, Papa came charging in, hearing the commotion and demanding to know what was going on and then paled at the sight of Mama, before leaving to find someone to fetch Dr. Clarkson, who is now here at the house, as I write this.

There are others who are sick, too. Our butler, Carson, is ill, although I would dare say he is doing much better today, or is looking better at least. And my cousin Matthew's fiancée. Mama is in resting again, and O'Brien continues to keep vigil. Dr. Clarkson told me that I should get some rest to, but honestly, how could I? So instead, I am writing to you. Because as a fellow nurse, I know you will understand what it's like to care for a patient, and the struggles we endure when it comes to perhaps caring "too much" for a patient.

Oh I wish you were here. I wish Tom were here too. He's staying at the village inn right now. He says he won't leave without me, and that nothing will keep us apart, and I believe him, but at the same time, neither one of us contemplated that THIS could happen!

…

I honestly don't know what to do. Other than sit, pray, and wait. And write. Writing to you has helped, very much.

I suppose I should end this, although I don't want to. But I have donned my uniform again and should go about my duties. I should see if there is anything Dr. Clarkson requires, as well as check on our patients. I think overheard our housekeeper make mention that some maids have fallen ill too. It appears that Downton has become the hospital my grandmother always fretted about.

Oh Susan, thank you as always for your friendship, and for your understanding. I apologize again for how mad and strange this letter sounded in certain parts (as well as for the ink stains). I miss you and wish both you and James (and your growing little one) all the very best. Be safe, Nurse Lawson.

In deep affection,

—Sybil


	166. Branson's Journal XIX

_Here's the match-up many of you have been anticipating! In this corner, the Irish radical chauffeur, Tom Branson, facing off with Robert, Earl of Grantham, Crawley! WHO WILL WIN!? Well we already know how that's going to go. I decided to explore this event through Tom's eyes via a journal entry; I felt that way we could really explore his thoughts while this was all going on. I hope that doesn't disappoint! Thank you again for reading and following and reviewing! I want to dedicate this chapter to a NEW reader, **DancingSock**, who told me she stumbled upon my story not too long ago, and read the whole thing (that's a lot!) in three days-WOW! Thanks again to everyone! We're getting closer to the end! LESS THAN TEN CHAPTERS LEFT!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Sixty-Six<strong>

April 4, 1919

I have felt many things today; practically every different sort of emotion a man can experience. Worry, fear, anger, rage, sorrow, and pity. It's that last one that I feel the most right now, and it's not even for myself, but for the man who will one day be my father-in-law, even if he never wishes to acknowledge that connection, but yes…I…I'm surprised to say that I actually feel pity for Lord Grantham.

Maybe that's why I'm able to write this? I thought I would be in a rage, I thought I would want to rip things apart and throw this journal across the room, and yet…I confess, I feel surprisingly calm.

Surprisingly calm, despite the conversation that only took place an hour ago.

Of course a few pints have helped as well. Yes, after Lord Grantham's surprising visit, I will not deny that in an effort to calm myself I did retreat to the pub and had a few drinks. Although can I really say that his visit was surprising? I've been sitting here ever since I arrived two nights ago, expecting him to come bursting through that door. And while he did not burst through it but knocked "civilly", none the less, he did come. And he did have some choice words.

…

…

I've been on edge ever since Mr. Bates—John—came here last night to tell me about what was happening at the house. My sleep was extremely fitful (if one can even call it sleep); despite his reassurances, I kept imagining every awful scenario of Sybil falling ill and…

…

…I really don't want to dwell on those thoughts any more than I already have, so I'll just say it was a long night. The truth is, I know I'll not be able to relax again until I see her, but who knows when that will be with everything that's happening now? I just…I pray that perhaps Sybil will find a chance to write to me as I wrote to her. Just a few lines on a scrap of paper, even just the words "I'm alright" will suffice. Just…something _from her_ telling me that she's well.

But I am grateful to him, John Bates. I'm grateful that both he and Anna will do what they can to keep me informed as to what is happening, and certainly for getting my message to Sybil. God, what it must be like for her. I can't even begin to imagine what she's going through—enduring whatever censure his Lordship or anyone is putting upon her, while at the same time trying to look after those who are sick and risking her own health…

…

…

Maybe I should risk it? Maybe I should go back tonight? Sneak onto the grounds after it gets dark and just…stay hide beneath our willow tree and watch her window? I don't need to speak with her (although I dearly want to) but just…if I can see her shadow, pass by her window, that will be enough.

She's so strong, though. I couldn't even begin to do what she does, and yet I know, deep in my heart, that she's handling all of this so well, taking charge and not batting an eye to any disdainful looks or whispers. Oh please Lord; if we have them, let our daughters be just like her—all of our children, actually; let them be like their mother.

…

I hate this waiting. Despite my years of experience with it, I don't like it. And this sort of waiting is the worst because this time, I have no work to keep my idle hands busy. I'm tempted to start knocking on doors and asking any other patrons of the inn if they have cars that need tending to. I thought about trying to do some more writing and I have my typewriter set up and ready, yet my mind can barely concentrate on anything other than what's happening back at the big house, so writing or reading for that matter, is out of the question. And while in some ways it would be good to just…leave and take a walk, I fear that if I do, that is when John or Anna will arrive with news from Downton, and…I just…I feel so completely, utterly helpless and I hate it!

…

…

This was how he found me.

I was sitting in my room, staring at the paper on my typewriter, thinking that if I could just force myself to type a few lines, that would be enough to get my mind off my troubles and ease my anxieties, when I heard the footsteps coming down the corridor. They were large and heavy, and they had purpose. My first thought was that it was Mr. Bates, coming back to deliver more news. It makes sense, since I heard the distinct tapping of a cane. However, when I opened the door it was not the friendly face of his Lordship's valet that I saw, but the man that valet serves…and his face was anything but friendly.

He barged right in as if he owned the place. Perhaps he does; the inn is called _The Grantham Arms_, after all. Probably thinks he owns the entire village and all the people who inhabit it. We're all supposed to "bow and scrape" to his every whim, or so he thinks. Didn't even have the decency to ask me to step aside, just pushed past me and began to assess my room, his face contorted with a look that I can only describe as disgust.

God…I just…how tempting it was to just…

My fists were clenched at my sides. I couldn't believe—still can't believe—that this was the man who I had been working for all these years, who I did respect, who I thought was a decent employer, and who I even spoke highly about to my family in all those letters I wrote. It's as if they're both two different men. Or…maybe I was just blinded to his true nature? I don't know, but God knows how tempting it was to connect my fist to his face.

…

I didn't, though even now as I write this, I can't deny I wanted to. But I didn't, for Sybil's sake, as well as because he no doubt expects such behavior from me. Glad to disappoint him then.

I glared at him when he finally turned to face me. He looked at me and had the audacity to ask if this was what my home was like back in Ireland; if it was "as nice" as this.

…

…

It's just as well I was the one who heard him say these words, for if my mother were here, I don't think she would have been able to resist the urge to punch him. Does he think because my family is working class, that automatically means I grew up in a slum? That my family lives in one? Does he even know what a slum looks like? I doubt he's ever stepped foot in one, because if he did, he would know better than to say such comments lightly. But truly…the audacity; he knows nothing about my family, and yet the assumption that we live in squalor—

…I suppose to him, living in anything that isn't a replica of Downton Abbey is squalor. What does that say about the chauffeur's cottage? Or the servant's quarters themselves?

I remember growling back at him, muttering that my mother keeps a very fine house, and she does, despite its small size and the number of people living in it. He didn't say anything further about the subject, just threw his hat and his cane down upon my bed—_my bed_—before proceeding to tell me that if I really loved Sybil as I claimed to, I would leave her alone and let her be, let her have the life that she "deserves", and put her interests ahead of my own, because apparently, I'm "ruining" her life and only thinking of myself.

…

Once again, THE AUDACITY OF THIS MAN! Did he not hear a word that Sybil said to him the other night?

No, no doubt he's realized that he can't "get through" to her. No doubt he's cornered her and tried to get her to "see reason" and "change her mind" and she refused, my brave girl, and so now he's resorted to different tactics, and hopes that he can somehow "guilt" me into leaving her, thinking that it's for "her own good" and that if I truly love her I'll "let her go" so she can have this so-called "luxurious life" that mirrors the fantasy of the one he thinks she's been raised in. And thus I am painted the villain, or so his Lordship hopes. I leave, it's because I was only after her for money or…I'm not even going to comprehend that _other thing_, because it disgusts me to the point where I know I'll be sick if I do.

But I saw through that tactic. I saw what he was trying to do and refused to fall prey to it. Besides, I think it's safe to say after this encounter, that I _do_ know Sybil better than he does! If I suddenly disappeared, she would know it wasn't because I didn't love her. She would look for me, search for me, and I have no doubt that she would find me. Also, I know what she wants, the life she longs to have, and it's NOT the one Lord Grantham believes is "best" for her. And by no means do I think that by loving her, marrying her, and taking her with me to live in Ireland, that I'm "ruining" her life, so I told him that. In fact my exact words were, "I don't accept that I am ruining her life, nor that I'm cutting her off from her family!" I went on then to accuse HIM of that crime, if he feels so "compelled" to turn his back on his own daughter and deny her happiness.

He then began shouting at me, asking how I would look after Sybil and provide for her, and once again I clenched my fists and found myself wondering if the man was deaf as well as blind, because didn't he hear Sybil at all? I accused him of being narrow minded and thinking that the only way in which he thought Sybil, or anyone really, could be happy was in some "version" of Downton Abbey. And that if that was the sort of life she wanted, then she would not be marrying me. OF HER OWN FREE WILL she has declared that I am her choice; my love and the life that I offer are the things she wants! She said so when we stood before her family the other night, and I have no doubt she said so again when he, no doubt, confronted her.

…

And once again he changed tactics.

…

Apparently he was done with "listening" to me, if you can call it that. He was through having a "conversation" and went to the old standby of "paying off" someone when you want rid of them.

…

…

Perhaps that is what disgusts me the post? That he thinks I can be so easily bought? No…no that he thinks that money is the ONLY reason I care about Sybil. That I'm after her for money, that I only want to marry her because I'm hoping it will somehow land me a fortune.

…

I'm looking at it right now, that very table and chair where he sat. God, if I could, I would burn piece of furniture. At the very least, I wish it could be removed from this room, I don't want it here because of the memories connected to it; him…sitting there, his chequebook open, not even bothering to look me in the face, to treat me as an equal! No…no, I was just…some "peddler" he could "buy off" and nothing more! He sat there and asked me to "name my price". God, his exact words were…were…

…

…

"How much will you take to leave us in peace?"

…

I hate myself for repeating them.

…

I stared at him, just…amazed. Amazed that the respect I once held for this man had shriveled up the dry petals of a dead flower. I couldn't believe it; I don't know why it shocked me as it did, since it's the sort of thing men like him do; throw some money at the so-called "problem" and it's bound to go away! And apparently that's what he thought. That by waving a cheque in my face I would just go…leave and never look back.

…

A cheque is just a piece of paper. Money is just pieces of paper.

…

…Is Sybil worth _less_ than a piece of paper?

…

Clearly that's what he was hoping I would think; that I would take the bait, and not only leave without her, but also prove to him that his prejudices are true. Once again, _happy_ to disappoint you, Lord Grantham.

He had the nerve to bring my mother up a second time. He made mention that I must have doubts because I revealed the other night that she, Mam, thinks both Sybil and I foolish, and that I should "yield to those doubts" and take whatever amount I wanted to start a new life back home.

…

I know I keep saying this word over and over, but I can't stop myself. The _AUDACITY_ of this man. He actually had the nerve to say that he would be "generous", that he would give whatever amount I dreamed, and then he insulted both Sybil and I further by calling what we feel "nonsense", although that shouldn't have been too surprising; after all, I still remember how he tried to laugh at our declaration, before calling it a "juvenile folly".

I was finished with him at that point. It was the last straw, because once again, in his efforts to insult me, he insulted Sybil, and I will NEVER tolerate that, especially from her own father.

Because that cheque, that mere piece of paper was what he had reduced Sybil to. He was comparing her to a slip of FECKING PAPER! And whatever amount I imagined, would be the amount she was worth.

…

…

Looking back…how on earth did I manage NOT to lay my fist into his face? It's a miracle, truly.

I wanted him out. I think I knew that if he didn't leave right then, I wouldn't have been able to hold myself back. So I threw an insult back at him! "You know your trouble, milord? You're like all of your kind. You think you have the monopoly of honor."

I could see him twitch under my words; he's not used to people like me speaking to him thusly, but I refuse to see him as a "great man" worthy of my respect simply because he has a title. From this point onward, if Lord Grantham wants my respect, he will have to earn it, and work very hard for it. And even then, I'm not sure if I can give it. Not after this day.

However…I think the words that truly bothered him was the insult I threw where I implied that he didn't know his own daughter, which clearly, _he doesn't._ He certainly doesn't bother LISTENING to her.

I asked him, "Doesn't it occur to you that I might believe the best guarantee of Sybil's happiness lies with _me?_"

…

Once upon a time I wouldn't have been able to speak such words. I wouldn't have had such "confidence" to say something like that. Certainly not after what happened in York…or in the years during the War…or even after that night at The Swann Inn. But I have no fear anymore, I have no doubt. I know she loves me; yes she has told me, many, many times, but…the way she stood by my side that night, the way SHE declared to her family what she wanted…

And her letters; the letters she wrote to me during those long, agonizing weeks, where we waited a newspaper to send me word. She even told me in her own words that she knew, without any doubt, that I was the key to her future happiness. She's called me her "ticket", she says I understand her, and…and I like to think that I do. My heart, my soul, they recognize her in a way that's…it's difficult to describe, other than to simply say…she's my equal. My second self. She is me…and I am her. And we are each other.

I don't say these words lightly; I don't think I'm so high and important. I may be full of myself sometimes, but I'm not that arrogant. It's the truth; the best guarantee for her happiness does lie with me! Because despite what Lord Grantham thinks, I can provide for her in a way that neither he nor any posh toff ever could! I can give her the life she longs for; I can support and encourage her to pursue her dreams of working and nursing for a living! I know this, because I LISTEN…and I understand. How could I not when she is my other half?

Lord Grantham clearly did not like that implication, that I knew her better than he. It clearly struck a raw cord with him, because he gave up in trying to persuade me with money and immediately began to "pout" like a child, throwing everything back into my face as if it were my fault that he came all this way to enter into a losing debate, accusing me of not being prepared to listen to "reason", to which I hotly replied that I was not and am not prepared to listen to insults, to which he snarled a "good day" at me, before grabbing his hat and cane and removing them from my bed, before issuing one final "threat" in an attempt to still prove to me—or himself, now that I think about it…that he is "Lord and Master" of this land, by ordering me to leave the village.

…

…

And that's when I felt pity for him.

This man, this man who has been raised to believe himself great simply because he was "blessed" with a title which he inherited. For this reason, everyone should pay homage, seek his council, and live in fear should he turn his wrath upon you. People certainly shouldn't dare to rise up and question his authority. They should simply obey his commands and let that be the end of that.

But that's not the world in which we live. Lord Grantham is trapped in a bubble. And bubbles burst.

I remember looking at him, and just…my eyes softening. I really felt such deep sorrow for him that he was so blinded by his hatred of me and what I represented that he was failing to see the amazing woman that Sybil is, and hearing her beautiful voice as she spoke her mind. Because…despite everything that's happened and is happening…I do believe that if I had to send word to her that I am leaving, now…she wouldn't hesitate to follow. I don't want to do that, not right now when her mother's health is so precarious, but…if I must, I will. And I know she will respond because I know her.

"Even though she'll come to me the moment I call? Do you really want me to leave now, when I will take her with me that same hour?" Those were my words. And I have never seen him look so pale.

…

He left then. No more words, no more gestures, nothing at all.

…I think it's safe to believe that he won't be back.

…

I didn't say those words because I thought myself superior to him. I said them because despite everything, despite the anger I feel towards him right now…I don't want him to sever that connection with her. More for Sybil's sake, I admit, but…I know that if he cut her off, turned his back on her, and announced that she was dead to him…then so would he be dead to her. And he would regret it. He would regret it for the rest of his life.

I'm not the one who has the capability to "ruin" her life, nor am I the danger that could break up Sybil's family. THEY are! Because despite all this…I would still welcome him into my home, if he so wished. For Sybil.

…

That's my motivation for everything, even my desire to join and be a part of Ireland's fight for independence: it's for Sybil.

It's for the life that we will make and build, side by side, for the family that will work to provide for, for the ideals which we stand upon.

For Sybil. For us.

...That's what it's always been about.


	167. I Miss You Too

_Just a quick update; I know many of you were curious if Sybil received Tom's letter. Hopefully this chapter will answer that question. And [spoiler!] our lovely OTP will be reunited at last in the next (yay!) So without further ado..._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Sixty-Seven<strong>

My dearest friend,

Oh Tom…your letter couldn't have come at a better time! Although it is still a poor substitute to the feel of your arms around me, it will do until we are reunited again.

The paper is crinkled from how tightly I've clutched it to my chest. And there are smudges all over it, both from my tears, and my lips having kissed it so many times since it was given to me a few short hours ago. But I don't care; I think I have every word memorized. And there aren't enough words to express the gratitude I feel for your kind messenger in bringing this letter to me. So thank you to them, and thank you, my love, for writing.

…

…

Oh Tom…I…I miss you so much.

Today has been horrible. This letter has been the only bright spark. Mama…I…she's gotten so much worse! I've been doing what I can, trying to make myself busy, hoping that by just…just throwing myself into my nursing that will somehow put things to right and relieve my anxiety, but…but no, nothing seems capable of doing that.

O'Brien woke me up this morning, frantically pounding on my door. Oh Tom, I…I've never seen anyone look like that! But I did what I could, I tried to remain calm and collected and Dr. Clarkson was sent for, and both O'Brien and I stayed by Mama's side, seeing to her comfort, keeping her brow cool, whatever we could to combat the fever, but…but I…there's only so much that a person can do! There is no "magical cure" to relieve the illness; time is really the only thing that can be relied upon, but…

…

I'm sorry, I…I know I'm making it difficult to read what I've written with how my crying is making the ink run every which way. Oh Lord, Tom…if I could, I…I think I would abandon everything right now and run straight to the Grantham Arms if I could. Straight to the inn and straight into your arms, and just collapse against you and let everything out. I know you won't judge me or think me weak. I would if I could, and…and Lord, it's tempting, but…but I'm so afraid that if I do, she'll get worse, and I don't want to make the same mistake Papa made earlier.

He was gone for several hours earlier. I don't know where; he claims he just "went for a walk", whatever that means. How he could…

…

It doesn't matter.

Thank God for O'Brien, though. I confess, I was never very fond of her; she always seemed so beastly and unfeeling, but…but clearly she truly cares for Mama, and the way in which she has stayed by her side all through the night and day, hardly pausing to take any rest for herself. She has served as a far superior nurse to Mama than I ever could.

Oh Tom, it's utter chaos here! All of us are running about, doing whatever we can, but…it's maddening, truly! Edith has been a help, as have Mary, though she is a bit distracted by Sir Richard's sudden appearance (he has come to "help" though I'm not really sure how, exactly). Mrs. Hughes is trying to be both housekeeper and butler, and Thomas has stepped forward and is helping in any way that he can as well. But…regardless of all this, we have guests staying here in the form of Sir Richard and his valet, the Bryants returned to "speak" with Ethel apparently (I have no idea how that went, let us just hope that "speaking" is what they do), a few more people have fallen ill, and preparations for the wedding _still_ continue! Do you see what I mean? Absolute madness! And even though Lavinia is on the mend, it's highly doubtful that she and Matthew will be getting married on Saturday.

…

…

Perhaps that's for the best…

…

Forgive me, I…I'll explain more later, at another time.

Carson seems to be improving, but…it's such a tricky disease. According to Dr. Clarkson, just when a person seems to be getting better, that is when things can take a turn for the worst! And…and that is what has been happening to Mama. She has moments where she seems perfectly fine and lucid and then moments when the fever has her in its grasp and I don't even think she can see us, let alone hear us, and…oh God, it's horrible. It's worse than anything I could have imagined. And…and I feel so helpless! I feel that there's more to be done, that I can do more, that I haven't done enough, and yet…Dr. Clarkson just keeps saying over and over that we have to wait.

…

You would think by now I should be good at that.

Papa said something earlier about how his whole world has gone over a cliff in a single day. I feel the same way, although it's been more than a day. Oh Tom, I assure you that I am alright, truly, and no one has bullied me into feeling ashamed of my feelings, though I will not deny that they have tried. But I stand firm and have remained so, being strong for the both of us. And last night—oh God, I can't believe it was only a night ago! Last night, before Mama told us that she was feeling ill, I overheard her talking to Papa.

She defended me! She defended my decisions and choices, and…and she said I'm a wonderful nurse. Oh Tom, she…she understands me! And…I'm sorry, I can't stop crying…

…

…

What am I going to do? I can't…I can't lose her! But…but she's getting worse! I only just came from her room now; oh God, it's…it's terrible! There was blood and...and Dr. Clarkson said that...that _if_ she lasts the night...

…

…

…

Please…please pray for her. Pray for us all, but…oh I don't know when you'll get this, I don't know when I'll be able to get this message to you, but…but if you can hear my thoughts and feel my heart, please…please, my dearest friend…think of her and pray for her.

…

…

Oh Tom…there is so much more I want to say, but I already feel I have been away from Mama and the others for too long. I don't know when this letter will reach you—I am hoping I can make arrangements with someone to take to the Grantham Arms tonight, but…whenever it is that you read my words, I hope and pray that they give you at least a little bit of the comfort your letter gave me. Truly…I cannot thank you enough. I love you, Tom; I love you so very, very much.

I must go, though I don't want to. Everyone will be gathering for dinner, but I confess, I have little appetite. Though please do not worry, I am taking care of myself, I promise you that. But before I force myself to have some supper, I will go and check on Mama and Lavinia at least one more time. Dr. Clarkson is with her now.

...

I just want to close my eyes...and when I open them, we're together and on a boat that will take us to Ireland, and everyone I care about is well and safe and happy. I am trying to stay positive and hoping that this is possible, but…no, no, I will not give up hope, I will be strong, I can be strong. I know I can, because I have your love, and that _always_ gives me strength.

Forever yours, always,

—Sybil


	168. Stay Tonight

_This chapter became a BEAST because there was so much I wanted to try and convey in it. Lots of emotion and trying to imagine how this might have played out, Sybil and Tom dealing with everything that's been going on since they made their announcement to the family *and* everything that's been happening since then. I also decided to make a somewhat "bold move" and have Sybil learn a certain piece of news. Interested to see what you think of it! Anyway, I'm happy to announce that FINALLY, our babies are back together (at least for the time being) :oP Thank you again for reading and hope you enjoy! THE END IS NEAR!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Sixty-Eight<strong>

Something wasn't right. He could feel it, sense it; deep in his bones.

Once again he was trying to sleep, and having little success. His day had been so idle after the sudden appearance and argument with Lord Grantham. He had kept vigil, waiting to see if John or Anna or someone from the house would come and give him word on any changes. He had fought the temptation to walk there himself, several times. It wasn't the fear of being arrested for trespassing that kept him away, but that he knew Sybil had enough to deal with right now in looking after and taking care of her mother that he didn't want to add to her burdens and give her another thing to worry about. But by that same token, he couldn't stop worrying himself about her and her own health, and he kept feeling a tug in his chest, an ache where is heart lay, as if she were calling out to him, begging him to come to her and find her.

And he wanted to, desperately.

He tried eating something when the supper hour arose, but his appetite had soured ever since Lord Grantham's visit. And though it was tempting to perhaps lose himself (and ease his anxieties) in a bottle of whiskey, he chose against it because he wanted all of his wits about him if something should happen. What that would be? He didn't know, but something told him to be prepared.

He had walked up and down the corridor several times. He had wandered the length of the pub on the ground floor. No doubt there was a groove in the floorboards of his room, based on much he had paced in there. And for a brief moment, he had stepped outside, taking in several gulps of cool early spring air and gazing up at the night sky, the stars coming out and twinkling overhead. It was a clear night; a beautiful night. The perfect sort of night for midnight strolls…especially to secret hiding places beneath special willow trees.

But still, he denied himself the temptation. It would just be his luck that someone would come to the inn when he wasn't there. So with a groan, he went back inside and forced himself up the stairs and locked his bedroom door, making himself ready for bed and determined to get some much needed sleep.

But something wasn't right.

Tom sat up in the dark and stared at the window where the faintest sliver of moonlight could be seen. He narrowed his eyes as he gazed through the glass at the village cloaked in night…and swore he saw a shadow of some kind flicker.

What in the world…?

Instinct told him to rise. His senses were on red alert. He leaned over to the bedside table and flicked the lamp on before swinging his bare feet to the cold floorboards. He crossed the room and without hesitation, unlocked his door and opened it, peering out into the dark corridor.

Nothing.

And yet…he sensed something.

A tiny bit of light could be seen, illuminating the staircase. It was coming from the pub below, but based on how quiet it sounded, there were no active patrons.

…Save one voice.

"You can't go up there, Miss! It wouldn't be right and proper—"

"Please, can you have a boy go and fetch him then? I need to see him!"

_ Sybil._

He was halfway down the stairs before he even realized that his feet had been moving.

"His name is Tom Branson, he's—"

"I'm here," he announced, his breath catching in his throat as she turned her head to look at him. Two days. Two long, agonizing days since he last saw her face and held her in his arms. If it were possible…she looked even more beautiful than when he had last seen her.

"Tom…" she breathed his name, and he couldn't deny the way she spoke it caused his chest to swell and his heart to throb with the knowledge that this beautiful, extraordinary woman loved a simple man like him.

The barman, who had been in the process of wiping down tables when Sybil entered, turned his focus on Tom and looked at him with confused eyes. "Do you know this woman?"

_This woman_. It was hysterical in some ways to hear Sybil, the youngest daughter to the Earl of Grantham, addressed in such a "common manner", yet while he had no doubt that the man was aware the Earl had three daughters and perhaps even knew their names, it was unlikely that he had never seen their faces. After all, why would a "Lady" have anything to do with a village pub? Not to mention she was dressed quite plainly—still wearing her nurse's uniform.

There were many gowns that he had seen Sybil wear in his years at Downton. Each one was dazzling and in each she looked very fine. But perhaps none finer than her simple gray uniform, with the white collar and her starched apron. Had he ever told her that? It was because when she put on that uniform, she was finally granted the freedom he knew she longed for, and could openly be the person she wanted to be. And nothing was more beautiful than that.

"She's my fiancée," Tom answered as he descended the rest of the steps. He couldn't help but smile as he gazed at her, especially when he saw a small smile lift at the corners of her mouth by his simple declaration. However, his smile faded when he saw the obvious puffiness beneath her eyes, and the pink color to her cheeks and nose. She had been crying…and there were still tears glistening in her eyes.

"Oh," the barman murmured, looking a bit troubled as he glanced back and forth between the both of them. "Um…I don't mean to…_presume_…anything, but…we're not the sort of establishment that…that encourages—"

"It's alright," Sybil interrupted, to which Tom was grateful for, because as he realized what the barman was implying, he felt his hands clench into fists and his temper rise like lava in a volcano. "I just needed to talk to him, please?" Despite the tears Tom could see swimming in her eyes, she gave the barman a kind smile, which immediately seemed to win the man over, because he was soon smiling back and looking rather bashful.

"Alright, go on then, love," he mumbled under his breath, before turning and looking at Tom. "Lovely lady; you're a lucky man."

Tom nodded in complete agreement. "I know, and I am."

He held his hand out to Sybil, who quickly moved to take it, and as tempting as it was to pull her into his arms right then and there, he'd much rather wait until they had a little more privacy. So without another word to the barman, Tom turned and led the way back up the stairs, Sybil close behind, her fingers locked and laced with his own, and he didn't stop to face her until they were in his room and the door was shut behind them.

He debated about locking the door, and in the end decided against it. While they had nothing to be ashamed of, at the same time he didn't want anyone accusing them of "dubious" behavior. He looked over his shoulder to where she stood, which was the middle of the room, the very place he had been standing when Lord Grantham had paid him a visit earlier that afternoon. She was looking at his bed, her hands gripping the footboard. Tom held his breath as he watched her. Her hair was hanging down around her shoulders, reminding him of that night in the Swann Inn, when he had helped her take it down. This was the second time the two of them were in such a room together, but unlike the Swann Inn, there was no large chair for him to sleep on.

"Sybil?"

She didn't say anything, she just gazed at the bed…but he could see the tears softly rolling down her cheeks, and he felt his throat clench with worry. _Something's happened. _Why else had she come? As romantic an idea as it was that she had come because she missed him, he knew there was more to it than that. She was a dedicated nurse; he had seen so many examples of that during the War. And these were people she knew…people she would call friends…and family. Her mother…

Oh God. Lady Grantham…

"Sybil?" he murmured her name again, and reached out for her, his hand gently touching her shoulder, turning her to face him. And when she did, his heart thought it would burst from the sorrow he saw in her eyes.

"Oh Tom…" she whimpered, before releasing a choked, tearful gasp, and without any further thought, collapsed against him, her arms wrapping around his waist, her hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, her face burrowing against his shoulder as the sobs shook her body.

He staggered slightly at the sudden force of her body hitting his, but his arms did not hesitate to enfold her and hold her tightly, his heart breaking at the sound of her sobs. He pressed his cheek against her head and closed his eyes, murmuring softly into her hair words he hoped she would find comforting. "I'm here, love…I have you…I'm not letting go…"

Tears stung his own eyes as horrible thoughts filled his head. Oh God…it had been years since he had seen his own mother's face. And despite the patronizing scolding she had given him in her last few letters, he loved his mam and the thought of never seeing her again, or any of his family, tore him to pieces.

But he pushed such thoughts aside, because frankly they were no help to Sybil. And right now, all that mattered was her grief, and her pain. She had comforted him many times in the past; he even remembered that time she had come to the garage, shortly after his failed attempt at pouring slop on General Strutt, and he had opened himself up to her and finally shared his grief about losing Martin. He had grieved that day, and she had comforted him. And then there was poor William, and how they both sought each other for comfort…and how in that comfort, they not only found the strength to carry on, but the courage to finally share and show their feelings for each other through that first kiss.

Now it was his turn to provide her with comfort and strength. And he would. He would hold her for as long as it took. Hold her and soothe her in any way that he could.

For a long time, that was how they stood; Sybil clutching him, her tears soaking the fabric of his shirt, her body shaking with every sob, and Tom running his hands up and down her back and into her hair, whispering words every so often, telling her that he loved her, over and over. Until finally, after several sniffles, she carefully lifted her head, a deep frown on her face as she gazed at his shirt. "I've ruined it—"

"You couldn't ruin anything," he stopped her, his fingers tenderly lifting to brush the residue of her tears from her cheeks, before leaning close and letting his lips linger against her brow.

Sybil swallowed and a soft smile lifted at the corners of her mouth, her own fingers rising to smooth the fabric of his shirt, as if by doing so that would clean it. He noticed how a gentle blush seemed to settle across her cheeks then, as if realizing just how…"informal"…he looked. Well, this wasn't the first time she had seen him dressed in an undershirt.

"Did I wake you?" she asked, looking up at him after assessing he had been dressed for bed.

Tom shook his head. "I couldn't sleep," he confessed. "I…I was worried," he admitted. "About you."

Sybil seemed surprised. "About me? Why?"

He sighed, not sure if he should say for fear of bringing back painful memories for her. But she seemed to understand, and nodded her head, before sighing and looking down at her fingers as they played with the buttons at the collar of his shirt.

He didn't know what to say. She hadn't really told him about what had happened, all he knew was that whatever it was, it upset her enough to bring her to him at this late hour. Did he dare ask? He needed to know, though he hated the thought of causing more tears.

"Your mother?" he whispered, his arms moving around her and drawing her close, prepared to hold and comfort her should she start to cry again.

But she didn't, though a pained expression passed over her face.

She shook her head, then took a deep breath and lifted her eyes to meet his. "Lavinia," she whispered.

Miss Swire.

Tom was surprised by her answer. He recalled how Bates had told him that along with her Ladyship and Mr. Carson, Miss Swire had also fallen ill. However, based on the brief report he had been given, it hadn't sounded very serious.

Miss Swire. Miss Swire was dead. Mr. Matthew's fiancée, the woman who may very well have been the next Countess of Grantham…

He barely knew her. They hadn't really spoken to each other, and when they had it was mostly polite thanks for when he opened the car door or offered his hand to help her in and out. Still, she had seemed kind, and Sybil had always spoken well of her.

Poor Miss Swire.

Poor Mr. Matthew!

Tom felt his jaw clench as emotion washed over him. The man had just lost his fiancée! Mere days before he was to _marry_ her! Tom's arms tightened around Sybil and he pulled her even closer to his body, lowering his head to the space where her neck and shoulder came together, his lips leaving tender kisses there as he breathed in her scent in an effort to calm himself from the horrible images that danced across his mind.

_That could have been me. I could have been Mr. Matthew, losing my fiancée to this terrible disease._ He hugged Sybil even tighter, his own eyes stinging with tears at the thought.

"Tom?" she murmured his name, no doubt sensing something was wrong. She was very clever, his Sybil.

"I'm sorry," he moaned against her neck, squeezing his eyes shut to keep the tears at bay. He took several quick, deep breaths, before finally lifting his head to look back into her eyes. "My deepest sympathies," he murmured, sincerely.

Sybil nodded in agreement, her own eyes swimming once more.

His hands rose once again to her face, needing to touch it, to let his fingers run across her cheeks, her lips, brush the soft, delicate skin under her eyes. Oh God, her eyes…her beautiful, blue-gray eyes. He couldn't imagine a day passing without seeing her eyes. The love he saw in them, love for him—it humbled him and made him feel unworthy, in some respects. And to think…if she died, her eyes would be closed forever and he would never be able to see that remarkable shade of blue ever again. No…no, it was too much to bear.

"Tom?" Sybil was looking at him, her eyes widening with concern as his own tears began to drip down his face.

"I…" he paused to gather himself together. "I…I just…" he looked at her and the sudden urge to kiss her overwhelmed him.

"Mmmm!" Sybil gasped, surprised by how quickly his head had dipped to capture her mouth. However, she quickly began to respond and Tom groaned against her lips as he felt their softness move against his mouth, before sighing open and welcoming his tongue with hers.

The kiss deepened even more, his hands holding her head, his fingers threading through her hair, while her own hands moved around his body, clutching his back as they had done before, her fingers gripping his shoulder blades, pulling him closer and urging him on.

And how tempting it was. How tempting it was to move her to the bed, to collapse upon its surface, to let their kiss continue to grow heavier, and hotter, to let his hands wander down her body, caress her beautiful, delicious curves, before reaching to her back, and undoing all the buttons, removing each and every piece of clothing until his skin touched hers at last.

How tempting it was…

He gasped, panting from the intensity of the kiss, his hands settling on her shoulders, but not moving any further. Sybil was panting too, and looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, a soft whimper escaping her lips as he leaned close again, this time letting his forehead touch hers.

"I love you," he breathed, the emotion overwhelming him. Sometimes he was amazed by how…_fiercely_, he loved her. He had never felt this way about anyone before Sybil, and now that he did, now that he had found the other half of his soul, the very thought of being parted from her and never seeing her again made him feel light-headed. He might as well slip into a coma and never wake up, because what would be the point? Now that Sybil was in his life, he never wanted to face a day without her. And he pitied Matthew Crawley; no, he held no envy for the future earl on this night.

"I love you too," Sybil murmured back, tilting her face slightly and brushing her lips against his again. He responded, but unlike before, this kiss was slower, lighter, the passion less intense, but still very present.

Tom sighed, squeezing his eyes shut in another effort to fight back his tears. Oh God, he was going to have nightmares tonight.

"Are you thinking about Matthew?"

Tom tensed and opened his eyes, looking down and her and feeling his chest tighten at the understanding he saw in her eyes. He sighed and gave a simple nod of his head. "I…I can't imagine what…what's going through his mind right now…" he whispered. Or rather, he didn't _want_ to imagine it.

Sybil sighed and once again pressed her cheek against his shoulder. "I know," she moaned against his shirt. "All…all I could think about was you, actually," she confessed, her words quickly followed by a sniffle. "Does that sound awful of me?"

He knew what she meant. They had both struggled with their emotions after William's death. He remembered feeling both elated and guilty when they had kissed; elated that they were moving forward at last, and guilty that it was happening after losing a dear friend. Of course Gwen had told him that she believed William would be happy for them both, and in the weeks and months that followed, Tom had come to accept and believe that too. Life was precious; love even more so. "No," he answered, kissing her brow again. "I don't think that sounds awful; and even if it were, you're not alone in thinking that."

She gave him a tiny smile and he couldn't help but smile back, before drawing her close again and threading his fingers through her hair, holding her as she held him, the two of them as always, finding sweet comfort and reassurance in each other's arms.

Another long moment passed, neither saying anything, simply holding each other. It was Tom who broke the silence this time, when he murmured against her hair, "What's to happen next?"

Sybil swallowed, but continued to keep her cheek pressed against his shoulder. "I'm not sure," she answered. "Papa said something about taking care of the funeral arrangements—but…to be honest, we were all in such a shock that…" her voice trailed off, but she didn't need to explain. Tom understood. "I don't know if Matthew heard him," she whispered into his shoulder.

Tom sighed and ran his hands up and down her back just a little longer before speaking again. "Did you see him leave?"

Sybil nodded. "Isobel took him away…" she murmured. "He…he didn't say anything, he…he just…" she took a shaky breath and pulled her face away so she could look into his eyes. "I've never seen him look so…so hollow, before."

Hollow. That was the perfect word; because Tom had no doubt that he would feel the same way if that had been him.

"And the others?"

Sybil shrugged her shoulders. "No one truly lingered…Sir Richard let Mary away, and Papa took Edith, and…and I stayed with Dr. Clarkson…" she swallowed and shook her head and Tom wished more than anything that he could take away her pain.

"Mama is improving," she murmured after a moment, trying to smile despite her sorrow. However her smile quickly cracked and a sob escaped her throat, and once again she collapsed against his chest, her body shaking as fresh tears soaked his shirt. He couldn't deny that her reaction stunned him; he was not expecting that the news of her mother's health improving to bring such an outburst.

"But that's a good thing," he murmured, trying to soothe her. He really didn't know what else to say. And he couldn't deny that while he had felt great sorrow at the news of Miss Swire's death, for Sybil's sake he was relieved that her Ladyship was still alive, and that hopefully the worst was behind. Perhaps that was it? Because as soon as the thoughts came to him, he felt tremendous guilt for that feeling of relief, and knowing Sybil's heart, he could only imagine how her own guilt over the matter would be eating away at her.

"Oh Tom…" she managed to say after taking several deep breaths. "I…I am happy for Mama, and yet…and yet…" her arms fell away from him and Tom realized she was reaching into the pocket of her apron…and his eyes widened as she pulled out a folded piece of paper. "I received your letter," she explained, before lifting her eyes and holding his gaze. "Thank you for that," she murmured, and despite the tears that had been shed, she smiled and he tenderly pressed another kiss against her forehead. "I…I wrote to you, too," she went on. She held the piece of paper out for him, and Tom realized now that this was the very letter of which she spoke. He released his hold from her and took the letter and began to open it, but she stopped him, her hands covering his. "No, don't," she shook her head. "There's…there's no point now," she sighed. "I wrote it when everything seemed so bleak for Mama, and…and before I realized how bad things had gotten for Lavinia…" she paused and he could tell by the somewhat faraway look in her eyes that she was recalling something. "I wrote that just before I went to check on her," she whispered.

Tom closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath. He gently pulled Sybil back and cradled her against him. She welcomed the embrace, and her own arms moved around and clung to him tightly.

"I'm so sorry, love," he murmured into her hair. He couldn't imagine what that had been like for her. He couldn't imagine half the horrors she must have witnessed as a nurse. She was so much stronger and braver than he could ever be.

"Tom?" she murmured his name against his shoulder. "May I…may I stay with you?"

His breath caught in his throat. He moved his head back so he could look into her eyes. Did she just ask what he thought she had asked?

"Please?" she whispered, her eyes large and pleading.

She did realize what this would mean, didn't she? Oh, of course she realized what this meant, she wasn't stupid.

"Sybil…" he wasn't quite sure how to answer. There was the answer he wanted to give her and the answer he felt he should give her. Not that she was really in any danger of him taking advantage—

Not that she would EVER be in any danger of that, he quickly corrected. He loved her, and while he could not deny that she was the source of every late night fantasy he had been having for the past five years, what he felt for her was more than "mere lust", and no matter the temptation, he would never do the sort of thing Lord Grantham had accused him of doing, that night when the both of them confronted her family.

However, just because he believed he could control whatever passionate urges he was feeling, especially on a night when so much sorrow had been shared, that didn't mean others would make assumptions. After all, didn't the barman himself jump to conclusions? He hated that this would be the common explanation assumed by Sybil's peers; that she had married him because "she had to", rather than because she loved him and wanted to.

"No one knows I'm here," she went on, as if reading his hesitance. "I honestly don't think anyone cares right now."

He doubted that, but he wouldn't deny that yes, Miss Swire's unfortunate death and unsure health of her Ladyship and Mr. Carson would be the thing that occupied people's thoughts more so at the moment, than the "scandalous engagement" between the ex-chauffeur and the Earl's youngest.

"I'll leave before sunrise," she continued, still trying to persuade him to say yes. "But please Tom; please…don't send me away?"

Oh God, as if he could after such a sweet plea?

Still, he tried to "do the right thing" one last time. "This isn't like the Swann Inn," he sighed, his eyes moving to the bed and swallowing the nervous lump in his throat. Maybe he shouldn't have assumed that just because tragedy had struck that evening, passion wouldn't try to overtake them? After all, wasn't that sometimes a typical response? In the midst of tragedy, to lose one's self in the throes of passion? A celebration of "life" in the midst of death?

"I know," she murmured, looking over her shoulder at his bed, and also taking note that there was no comfortable chair for him to sleep on like he had that night. "But," she turned back and looked at him. "But you and I have grown a great deal since that night…" her hands lifted to touch his cheeks, and he stared down at her, memorized by both her beauty and her love. "I trust you, if that is what you fear."

"Oh Sybil," he sighed. "I would never—"

"I know, Tom. I know you would never do anything that I didn't want you to do," she assured him. "But by that same token, just because I am a woman and have never…" she blushed and her lashes fluttered against her cheeks for a moment, before she lifted her eyes once again to hold his gaze. "…Have never been with a man," she continued. "Doesn't mean that I am incapable of not wanting to do those very things."

A groan escaped his lips, and he felt his face grow suddenly hot with embarrassment. Sybil, however, was smiling again, and for that Tom was grateful.

"I don't know who came up with this ridiculous notion that women do not have desires and cravings for the flesh the way men do," she muttered with a roll of her eyes. "While so many precautions are taken to ensure a woman's virtue, what about a man's? Is his virtue less important because he is male? By that same token, why are men encouraged to have 'experience' prior to marriage, whereas women aren't? And really, I must confess that I trust your self-control a great deal more than my own—"

"Aren't you supposed to be trying to convince _me_ to let you stay?" he interrupted, though he couldn't help but smile at the passionate lecture she was giving. Ever his suffragette.

She blushed, seeming to realize the rant she had momentarily lost herself in. "What I'm trying to say is…I love you, and even though it's only been two days since I last had the chance to speak with you face to face, let alone hold you and kiss you…" she paused long enough to lean up on her tip toes to brush her lips against his once again. "Those two days were two of the longest days of my life," she confessed, her body sagging against his. "And after everything the both of us have been through…and after what happened tonight…I…I don't want to have to face this night alone without you," she whispered, her gaze holding his and silently challenging him to try and send her away.

He couldn't. He wouldn't. He didn't want to.

"Oh my darlin'," his voice and accent were thick with emotion. His fingers were trembling as they tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. "As if I would be able to sleep at all without feeling you beside me," he admitted, which was true. Perhaps with Sybil in his arms, the nightmares would stay away?

She smiled at this, and hugged him tightly, burrowing her face against his chest, thanking him over and over. He kissed the top of her head, and then gently eased her away from him, only to take her hands and lead her towards the bed. She blushed as she sat down upon the mattress, feeling it dip beneath her slightly, smiling and giggling something about how it was more comfortable than the beds in her aunt's town house. He knelt down in front of her, and he heard an intake of breath come from Sybil's lips as his fingers went to work unlacing her boots, before slipping them off her feet.

"You're quite good at that, Mr. Branson," she murmured, a teasing note in her voice.

He tried to give her a stern look, but he couldn't help but smile back at her. "Undressing you was never going to be a problem for me, milady."

Sybil's mouth fell open, her cheeks turning crimson at his words, and he couldn't help but grin and feel rather proud that he had, at least for the moment, robbed her of speech. "You'll want to remove that apron, I would think."

She was still blushing, but clearly trying to regain the upper hand. "Well since you're so good at playing valet," she answered, rising and turning away from him to offer him the opportunity to untie it, himself.

He chuckled and did just that, tempted to kiss the back of her neck and wrap his arms around her waist and pull her against him—but he didn't, because he doubted their self-control would be able to withstand for the long run.

With her apron undone, Sybil tossed the material over a nearby chair and once again settled herself back down upon the mattress, lifting the covers and crawling beneath them.

She made a face. "This is hardly comfortable—sleeping in this bulky dress."

"Sybil…"

"Don't worry," she reassured. "I'm not going to ask you to help me remove it; I will not take advantage of your 'gentlemanly virtue'."

He snorted. He doubted his mam would call the thoughts that were running through his head "gentlemanly".

As soon as he had climbed into bed, she was snuggling her body against his own. He hadn't even had the chance to turn off the bedside lamp! Yet he would never dream about complaining. As soon the lamp was turned off and he had managed to settle down on his side, Sybil's head found a place to rest against his chest, and Tom's arm wrapped around her shoulders, bringing her even closer to his body.

A contented sigh escaped his lips, and a smile slowly spread across his face. This was even better than how he had imagined it would feel.

"Will it be like this? When we're married?" she asked in the darkness.

Tom couldn't help but smile at that, a rather cheeky answer coming to his mind. "I'd imagine we would both be more 'appropriately' dressed."

However, he should never underestimate Sybil when it came to getting the last word. "Or naked."

"Sybil…" he groaned, his body stiffening and he closed his eyes, squeezing them shut and silently counting his head in an attempt to calm the blood pressure that was going away from his head to _other parts_ of his body.

Naturally, she was giggling, and burrowed her face against the crook of his arm, however just because he couldn't see her blushing didn't mean he couldn't feel the heat of her cheeks. Silence settled over them again. Sybil's arm rose up, and her hand rested just over his heart. Tom's other hand rose as well, cupping hers and holding it there. They both laid there like that for a long moment, listening to the other breathe. He found himself wondering if she had fallen asleep—

"Tom? Did my father come visit you today?"

He froze at her question.

He felt Sybil shift in his arms. "He was gone earlier; I asked him where he had been and he simply told me he had 'taken a walk'…"

What should he tell her? No? That would be an outright lie, and Sybil would despise him for doing so, and quite rightly. She would look at it as if he were trying to "coddle her" from the harsh reality of what had happened. However, if he told her the truth, the wedge that had been driven between his beloved and her father would become even wider, and as much as he disliked Lord Grantham at the moment, he didn't want to give Sybil cause to cut off all ties to her family.

"He did, didn't he?"

His silence had clearly been answer enough.

He felt her move away from him and realized that she was sitting up. "What did he say? Did he threaten you? Tell you to 'leave me alone'?" she demanded, the anger in her voice rising by the second.

"Sybil—"

"Answer me, Tom," she practically growled. "We promised each other that night in London that we would be open and honest with each other."

He groaned and soon found himself sitting up once again, his hand moving to turn on the lamp so he could see her face. "He did come," he answered honestly, and saw her jaw clench at his words.

"I knew it," she muttered to herself. "And…?"

"Love, he doesn't understand, but give him time—"

"Please don't," she interrupted, her voice shaking with fury. "After the things he's said, to _both_ of us, he does not deserve _you_ of all people, defending him."

She wasn't going to let this drop. He had hoped that after all the tears they had shed and anxiety they had let go, that they could find peace in each other's arms and drift off to sleep together, dreaming about the future and their future nights as husband and wife.

But her grief had now turned to anger, and was demanding its own release. And if he continued to delay, it would just make things worse. So with a heavy heart and tired eyes, he took a deep breath and told her the truth. He told her how her father had come to him, how he had challenged him by saying that if he truly loved her, he would leave her alone and never return. And when his threats and attempts to guilt him didn't work, the man resorted to the only resource he had left: bribery.

Sybil was furious.

No, she was beyond furious: she was livid.

"I hate him," she hissed, her body trembling with rage, her eyes filling with hateful tears.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Don't say that, love."

"Why not?" she growled, turning and looking at him as if he were mad to even suggest that she shouldn't. "It's true! I DO hate him!"

"You're angry with him and what he did was wrong, yes, but he is your father—"

"AND I AM HIS DAUGHTER!" she practically roared, her eyes wild and her face contorted in both confusion and what could perhaps be seen as betrayal. "Honestly, Tom, how…_HOW_ can you sit there and defend him—"

"I'm NOT defending him!" he hissed back, trying to keep his voice from rising. The last thing they needed was for someone to come banging on his door at hearing Sybil's voice. There would be no stopping the rumors then. "I'm not defending him," Tom repeated, to which Sybil gave a snort, but didn't press the issue further. "The thing is…your father, like many men of his class and generation, was raised to believe that the way a 'problem' was dealt with, was to use money to make it go away."

She narrowed her eyes. "So his 'ignorance' shall we call it, is an excuse for his abysmal behavior?"

"Of course it isn't," he sighed. "And I'm not saying you shouldn't be angry with him; I was angry with him when he made the offer! I muttered something about how he believed that men like him think they have a 'monopoly on honor'."

Her frown lessened slightly, and she looked rather intrigued by his words. "Did you really?"

He gave a sheepish grin. "I did. And when he accused me of not being prepared to listen to reason, I accused him of not being prepared to listen to insults…and I must say, I think it unnerved him."

She was starting to smile now, and she looked rather proud. "Good. I'm glad."

He couldn't help but smile at her, though he wished she could be spared this anger and pain. He sighed again and reached for her hand, his fingers lacing with hers and giving it a gentle squeeze. "I don't want you to hate your family, love. And I don't want you to be angry with them forever—"

"But they make it so difficult!" she groaned, rolling her eyes.

"They will come around, love," he murmured, before leaning close and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

Sybil sighed and leaned into his lips, a sad and tired smile linger on her face. "You amaze me," she murmured. "Even after everything you saw the other night, and how they responded to our announcement, and how Papa came here and tried to bribe you to leave me…even after all the insults he's thrown at you, you _still_ think that's possible?"

He gazed at her for a long moment, his free hand rising to her cheek and brushing another strand of hair away from her face and tucking it behind her ear. Such an intimate gesture; the sort a husband would perform for his wife.

"I do," he whispered. "Because _I know_ how deeply they love you…"

Sybil stared back at him, opening her mouth as if she were going to argue, but stopped, and closed her mouth before looking down at their hands.

"Mama…" she began. "I…I wrote about it in my letter, actually; I…I overheard her the other night. She was…" she paused and took a deep breath and Tom could see tears glistening in her eyes again. "She was defending me," she whispered, a smile curling at the corners of her mouth. "She told Papa that I was a 'wonderful nurse'…and then asked him if perhaps…if perhaps they've 'overlooked' who I really am…"

He didn't say anything; he simply squeezed her hand in understanding. He was glad her Ladyship thought this; he was glad she was able to see Sybil for who Sybil truly was. He knew more than anything that was what Sybil wanted from her family: acceptance and understanding.

"…Sometimes a hard sacrifice must be made for a future that's worth having…"

He looked at her, surprised to hear those very words he had once murmured to her (God, it seemed so long ago in one sense, and then like only yesterday in another), being repeated back to him.

"It will be a very long time before I can forgive him," she murmured, her eyes still focused on their hands. "And I'm not even sure I can…or that I want to," she confessed.

He understood and squeezed her hand. Honestly, if he had learned that his own mother had tried to do something like that, he would no doubt feel the same way.

"…I don't want to be like Matthew and Lavinia," she murmured. She lifted her eyes to his and held his gaze as she continued. "Or like Mary and Sir Richard. Or…" she paused, as if a memory was coming back to her, but she shook her head and continued. "It took me years to make my decision, but I have made it and I am not backing down from it. As I shouted at both Papa and Granny when they tried to 'persuade' me to end this, 'I will not give him up!' and I meant it."

He smiled and lifted her clasped hand to his lips. He could easily imagine it too. "I wish I had been there," he chuckled. He had been right in his confidence about Sybil's love and steadfastness. Once again, he found himself pitying Lord Grantham. The man didn't understand, and was doing everything he could to remain blind to the truth.

"We'll prove him wrong…" Sybil murmured, squeezing his hand and holding his gaze. "We'll show everyone. I love you…" she leaned forward until her forehead met his. "And I'll always bet on you."

A shaky breath escaped his lips, and his hand cupped her cheek, tilting her face back and gently letting his lips move against her own.

It wasn't the deepest of kisses, but it was every bit as sweet as their first.

Peace seemed to finally settle over them both once again. He turned off the lamp once again, and resettled himself back down on the bed, Sybil following and her head once again finding his chest to be her pillow. "Tom?" she murmured in the dark. "Thank you…"

"For what, love?"

He could feel her smiling.

"For betting on me," she answered.

His chest swelled with such love for her, and he pulled her closer to his side, relishing the wonderful feel of her in his arms, lying next to him, as he knew they would be doing every night after they married.

"I love you," he whispered to her, his hand once again finding hers, bringing it to his lips, before settling it over his heart once more.

There were no more words spoken after that. Sleep finally came to them, Sybil curled against his side and his arms wound around her through the night. And it was the sound of the dairyman delivering milk to the inn that awoke Tom. With a weary sigh, he turned on his side to see Sybil spooning his body, nuzzled her neck before gently urging her to awake.

He walked her back to Downton, the two of them holding hands and listening to the sounds of the earth awaking all around them. They stopped by the gates that led to the house, and held each other for a long moment, breathing the other in, committing the shape of each other's body and the feel of the other to memory once more, before leaning close and sharing a long, deep kiss.

"Just a few more days," she whispered to him when their lips parted.

He smiled at her and once again, lifted a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'd wait forever…"

"But you won't have to," she told him firmly, smiling and leaning up on her toes once more to kiss him again, before murmuring that she loved him, and then moving past the gates and making a quick retreat back to the house.

He sighed and stuffed his hands into his pockets; his eyes never leaving her until he knew she was safely back inside once more.

And just that quickly, he started missing her again.


	169. 1919: A Fifth Letter to Gwen

_Another quick update! My goal is still try and have this story finished by Sept. 22, 2013-which also means I hope to soon start writing and posting Love's Continuing Journey before the month is over! FINALLY! But anyway, if you didn't get a chance to read it, I did post Chapter 168 yesterday, so *please* go and read that first if you haven't had the chance. _

_I wrote this chapter because I felt it would be something Sybil would feel; I just imagine that she would feel a little guilt about what happened with Lavinia, and she would need to vent about it to someone, and Gwen just seemed the most natural choice to me. Hope you think so too! And as always, THANK YOU for the lovely reviews and follows! Yes, things are getting closer and closer to the end...after this, only six chapters left! AHHH! Thank you again for reading!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Sixty-Nine<strong>

Dearest Gwen,

I thank you for your hasty reply, and pray that you will receive this message just as quickly. Tom and I are delighted to have that opportunity to see you and Edward and the children once again, and will most likely stop on our way to Liverpool. Sadly, I can't say when that will be, though I can give you an estimation: no earlier than Tuesday, no later than Thursday. I do apologize for the vagueness, but I'll explain.

…

Oh Gwen, so much has happened since I last wrote to you. Gracious, I just realized that was _before_ Tom and I had made our announcement! Tom did tell me that he wrote to you recently, so I won't rewrite what you already know about how my family "welcomed" our news. But so much has happened since then, Gwen! And that's what's so amazing and so maddening when I think about it; that was two nights ago. Two nights ago, Tom and I stood in the Downton drawing room, declaring to my family and the world that we were in love, going to marry, and leave for Ireland in matter of days.

…I suppose that is a bit much to swallow all at once. Papa and Granny did what they could to try to "talk me out of it" and help me see "reason". But the threats they gave were hollow. Really Gwen, since when did I sit around anxiously waiting for Lord and Lady Marlborough to invite me to one of their balls? To stand there and think I would change my mind upon realizing that I may never receive another invitation to any sort of party for a future London season? It was wasted breath.

Papa is against the idea the most, followed by Granny, although she does seem to be a bit more sympathetic—certainly more so than I ever imagined her being. But when I say "sympathetic", what I mean is, I think she feels sorry for me that I'm under "delusions of grandeur" thinking myself to be some sort of cross between Juliet and Lady Chatterley.

Mary, while she does not support what Tom and I are doing, will not turn her back on me…and I pray that also means Tom, as well. She will never stop acknowledging me as her sister, and I do believe that if someone were to say something negative about me in her hearing, woe to them because they will unleash the wrath of Lady Mary Josephine Crawley.

Edith has shown Tom and I support for several months now, after our ill-fated attempt at running away together. However, I think she's torn between wanting to do right by us, and wanting to keep peace with the family.

And Mama…

Well…I…I honestly don't know what she thinks about our decision to get married; yet I do know that…that she thinks I'm a wonderful nurse, Gwen. Those were her exact words, too! I overheard them when I was passing my parent's room the other night; she was defending me to Papa! I'm just hopeful that…that because she's seeing me for whom I really am, that she will come to accept my decision to marry Tom, and ultimately accept Tom as her son-in-law.

…

…

Oh Gwen…so much has happened.

It all began that night, the night I happened to overhear Mama defending me, the night after Tom and I made our declaration.

Spanish Flu.

First, let me reassure you that I'm alright, and so is Anna and both of my sisters, and most of the servants. Carson got sick, but he's on the mend. A few housemaids also fell ill, but they are doing much better now, as well. Mama…Mama took ill…and…and for a while, it looked very bad.

…

…

But it was Lavinia…

…

Oh Gwen, forgive me. I…I thought I had control of my emotions, but…forgive the ink stains, please.

At dinner, Mama announced she wasn't feeling very well, and so left to go back to her room. A little later, Lavinia said the same thing. I saw to them both; Lavinia seemed to be doing much better! Weak, of course, but her fever had decreased and her breathing seemed normal. Whereas Mama was…oh God, those images will haunt me forever, Gwen. I have never been so frightened. And all I could think about while I watched her and helped O'Brien in nursing her (I know you and I have never been very fond of Mama's lady's maid, but truly, O'Brien was a far better nurse to Mama than I ever could be. She was so dedicated and hardly left her side!)—but for a while, Gwen, it looked very, very bad. And I…I felt so helpless, because Dr. Clarkson said there was nothing more we could do, other than wait! And I remember going to my room, breaking down and crying on my bed, clasping my hands together and praying and asking God to spare her. I begged and begged, saying I couldn't lose her, that I needed her, that I would do anything to save her, pleading that her sickness be taken away and her life spared.

…

…

And it was.

…

And now Lavinia is dead.

…

…

…

Oh Gwen, I…I know it sounds ludicrous, but…but I can't help but wonder if…if that's _my doing?_

I mean I begged and prayed for Mama to be spared! And in the end it was Lavinia who perished! Lavinia, who was only a few years older than myself, who had so much life to look forward to, who…who…

…

…

I will confess, I…I had always hoped that Matthew and Mary would reconcile and find their way back to one another, but…but not like this! And…and while I am happy and glad that Mama is feeling significantly better, at the same time I feel it's wrong to be happy and glad, because poor Lavinia…

…

Oh Gwen, she didn't deserve this. No one does. And I feel wretched. And please, please know I'm not saying that because _I_ want to be pitied, not at all. But I do feel guilty. And I know it's mad, because…because as Dr. Clarkson has told us, over and over, so much is unknown about Spanish Flu, and these things "just happen" (his words), which…I don't know if that's meant to be comforting or not, but…but still, I can't help but feel I had something to do with it! I mean, O'Brien was looking after Mama, she didn't need me hovering. I could have been paying closer attention to Lavinia! And from what I do know about Spanish Flu, or what I have read about it, it is harsher on younger people, and that most crucial moments are when patients seem to be recovering, and…and knowing that, _WHY DIDN'T I_ go back and check on Lavinia sooner? I should have! I SHOULD HAVE!

…

…

And instead, I was in my room, writing a letter to Tom, crying and pouring my heart out about how frightened I was for Mama, ONLY THINKING about my mother and not about other patients. And yes, I know, the excuse is "she's your mother", and that is certainly what Tom said to me, but…but still…I'm a nurse, Gwen! And one of the first rules I remember my teachers instructing me was the importance of putting aside our emotions and personal feelings in an effort to provide equal care for all patients.

…

And I failed.

…

…

Matthew and Lavinia's wedding was supposed to be this Saturday. But instead of a wedding, there will be a funeral, on Monday.

Poor Matthew. I saw him earlier today, Gwen. It was awful; he had come to the house and…and he was so pale and he looked so…like he was in shock. We're all in shock, I think. Throughout the entire week they've been hanging decorations for the wedding, and now, today of all days when Matthew returned, they were taking those decorations down.

Oh God, I can't imagine what that must have been like for him to see. He didn't stay long, and who can blame him? Papa spoke to him; told him that everything would be taken care of. He will make all the necessary arrangements for the funeral, and Mrs. Hughes was in the drawing room, directing various housemaids on boxing up the wedding gifts to send them back…

…

Oh Gwen…it's so sad! A part of me feels I should go to Matthew and offer my condolences, as well as my apologies for…for not having been the proper nurse that Lavinia needed, and yet I have no idea what I would say.

…

…

And then there were Lavinia's parting words. She wanted Matthew to be happy, that's what she told him. To…to go and be happy…

…

…

…

I'm sorry, I…

…

I just…I can't help but wonder if perhaps she was trying to tell him that it was alright to…to…

…

No, never mind. I'm sorry, I'm just rambling and wasting paper (and ink now that I see how many bloody tears have smudged my writing; good God, is it even legible?)

Anyway, as I mentioned, the funeral will be on Monday. And…and assuming that Mama's health continues to improve, as Dr. Clarkson believes it will, then Tom and I will be leaving shortly after.

Perhaps Tuesday is a bit too soon to expect us. But before the week is over, Tom and I will be leaving.

…

I honestly don't know how my family will respond to it all, especially after this. I've made it perfectly clear to everyone that I am not giving Tom up, and neither of us is budging in their attempts to "change our minds". We are leaving, we are going to be married, and they _must_ accept that, even if they don't like it.

…

I suppose I'll start packing my things between now and Monday. I won't be taking very much; certainly no more than two trunks, which in itself is an extravagance, I suppose. Really, the hard part will be trying to decide what _not_ to bring. I have so many books that I dearly love, but I know it's not feasible to bring them all. And there will be no need for half the frocks in my closet.

I do worry about Tom, meaning I hate that this is delaying things a little longer.

Oh God, how awful does that sound? How selfish, after everything that's happened!

…

But I _do_ worry, because…because the paper that's hired him, they gave him an advance, which he has been able to use to pay for a room at the Grantham Arms, but…but we always thought we would be leaving on Monday or Tuesday at the latest (but of course that was before everything happened). And I know the both of us were hoping he wouldn't have to use all of that money towards his accommodations, but if we stay here for much longer…

Not to mention we still need to purchase tickets for the boat to take us to Dublin, and the bus to take us to Liverpool…

…

I'm waking up, Gwen. Waking up to things I never considered before. Money was never something I gave a great deal of thought about, and yet now I've come to realize I can't think like that anymore. I do have some money set aside, but…but not as much as Tom has saved up, yet even so, he was going to use that money to find us a place of our own, and…

…

Oh gracious, just so many things I never even considered before. It is rather daunting and terrifying, I will admit. But I still welcome these challenges. After all, when I went to York, I felt overwhelmed at first, but I managed to survive and overcome my fears and misgivings and it has made me a better and stronger person, I think. So I hope and pray that I can be just as strong if not stronger, to face these challenges, and prove to everyone…that I, and Tom, can do this.

…And it does help that he will be by my side. We both seem to give each other strength. And he certainly helped me last night.

…

…But that is a story for another time.

Oh Gwen, it will be so good to see you again. I miss you so much! You are such a dear friend, and I'm so happy that we have remained so and kept contact, despite all the changes happening in our lives. Oh please, may we continue to write, even when I am in Ireland? A silly question, I suppose, but…I hope we can! Your letters have always been such a comfort to me, and…perhaps it sounds strange, but hearing you talk about your life as a married woman with both a family and a career…well, it helps. It helps because that's what I want too. I do envy you Gwen, but hopefully very soon, I too will know what it's like! And we can share stories back and forth in our letters! Oh I would like that very, very much! And the advice you have given me about…well…about possibly what to…'expect' once Tom and I are married has been quite…helpful.

…

Oh Lord, how I am blushing. But truly, it has been helpful, and I do appreciate everything you have told me.

…

…

I suppose I should go and see what I can do to help. But it was good having a chance to write to you, as well as to read your letter. I will not deny that I still feel terrible and guilty…but writing to you has helped. It usually does.

Again, thank you Gwen, for your friendship, and for being the third sister I could always go, for anything. I look forward to seeing you again, and I promise to send a telegram to let you know for certain when Tom and I will be by. I'm sorry again for the hastiness, but thank you so much, again, for your understanding.

Until next week, in fond friendship,

—Sybil


	170. Branson's Journal XX

_ONLY FIVE CHAPTERS LEFT! So here's a quick update! Remember when Bates asked Tom to be his and Anna's witness? Here's the evens of the Bates' wedding with a little S/T twist. Thanks as always for reading! Hope you enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Seventy<strong>

April 5, 1919

It seems that despite the circumstances that have rocked the lives of those that reside at Downton Abbey…a wedding was going to take place, no matter what.

Today, I stood in the back of the registrar's office in Ripon, and watched as two dear friends of mine stood before God and man and made vows unto each other to love, honor, and cherish one another for the rest of their lives. And just like that…with the slip of a ring, murmured promises sealed with a kiss, and signing a piece of paper, Anna Smith became Anna Bates.

And I was the fortunate one to witness it all.

Actually…now that I think about it, I've been witness in some form or another to quite a few weddings. Kathleen's, where I stood in for Da and walked her down the aisle; Gwen's wedding, Daisy and William's wedding (God rest his soul) and now John and Anna's. Each one was different, each one unique, each one special.

…But if anything, it's made me long for my own even more.

Weddings aren't the sort of things men are supposed to ponder. Leave that to the women, my cousins would joke. The only thing a man should look forward to is his wedding night.

…

…And it would be a lie to say that I haven't thought about _that_ a great deal. But it's more than just sharing a bed with Sybil; last night, holding her while we slept, waking up with her, holding her hand as we walked back to Downton, kissing her goodbye…

I want a life with her. I want to live my life with her by my side, all the rest of my days! I want to go to bed every night with her next to me, and wake up every day, feeling and seeing her there. I want to kiss her goodbye before we part our ways for work, and then kiss her again when we return home. Whenever we walk somewhere, be it to church or the pub, I want to hold her hand, or feel her arm wrapped with mine. And this room at the Grantham Arms…it's about the right size for a bedroom of a nice a flat in Dublin. I can easily imagine that; the two of us in our bedroom at the end of a long day.

No, I don't just want the wedding night. I want the actual wedding itself, because I want to be her husband and for her to be my wife. I want to start living as Mr. and Mrs. Branson! And I couldn't help but look at my friends today with some envy, wishing so many times that I lost count, that it was Sybil and I in that office, making our vows and beginning our lives as husband and wife at long last.

Of course, my mother would never forgive us if we did something like this. We're lucky that she's willing to let Sybil stay and welcome us at all! Which means I'm going to have to walk on eggshells around her for a while—Lord knows she'll hold this favor over our heads.

But it was an honor, to stand there and be John and Anna's witness. I'm glad they asked me to be there and share this day with them. I only wish Sybil could have attended; I know she would have liked to have been there, too.

It was shortly after I returned to the Grantham Arms, that I received word from the house about the impending wedding. The lad who always brought the newspapers to Downton, came into the inn to make his delivery and saw me sitting in the pub, eating my breakfast, when he came over holding a folded piece of paper, telling me it had come from the big house.

I swear, I thought at first it was some message of doom from his Lordship or Mr. Carson, but was relieved to see that it was from John Bates, telling me that this afternoon the Ripon registry office had an opening and it was then that both he and Anna would be getting married. I thanked the lad, gave him a few coins, and then went to speak with the innkeeper, asking him if he knew of where I could borrow a car.

I spent the entire morning trying to track one down. The few people I know in the village weren't aware that I was no longer an employee of his Lordship, and so didn't understand why I would need to borrow a car when I could just drive one of his. I tried to explain, without going into great details about myself, that it was for a personal matter, and therefore "didn't seem right" to borrow something of his Lordship's. In the end, it was the innkeeper himself who took pity on me, who had an old truck that wasn't the most "elegant" of motors (and he wasn't wrong) but I thanked him none the less, tried to give him some money, though he politely refused, before patting me on the shoulder, thinking it was kind that I wanted to play "chauffeur" to my friends for their wedding.

I can't help but wonder if the innkeeper knows my story. I never spoke to him before I came to stay here. And judging from the reactions to people in the village, no one seems aware (yet) about who I am and what I was (and what I'll be doing very soon). As far as I know, the innkeeper thinks I'm just some kindly Irishman who wants to, as he said, "play chauffeur". And even though he refused my money, I'll still leave him something extra when I leave this place.

He apologized unnecessarily for the condition of the truck; while I'll admit that yes, it's old and nowhere near as grand as anything belonging to his Lordship, based on the checks I made to the engine, and listening to the motor, it sounded and looked perfectly fine. Just needed a wash and a bit of polish and it would be perfect, so that was what I did until it was time to get the bride and groom to the registry office on time.

…

I'm honestly can't stop laughing as I remember the looks on their faces…the way their jaws dropped when I pulled up to the bus stop where they were waiting…absolutely priceless!

I leaned out the window and grinned and said something about how their "carriage awaits!" before leaping down to open the door for them, putting my best "stern chauffeur face" (as Sybil calls it) forward. Anna laughed before taking my hand and thanking me as I helped her up. John couldn't believe I had gone to so much trouble and said so, but I reassured him over and over that it was no trouble, not at all; I'd do it for any friend. Besides, no bride and groom should take a bus on their wedding day! They deserved some privacy, and being a chauffeur, I was well versed on "ignoring the people in the back" (unless, of course, that person is Sybil).

We did stop once, on the way to Ripon. We passed a field of wildflowers and Anna said something about she needed a bouquet, and then asked me to stop so she could quickly gather some. John waited for her in the car as she gathered her flowers, his eyes never leaving her, and his face beaming with the biggest smile I've ever seen him wear.

…

He turned to me just before she came back and said "thank you"; I'm not really sure why. Was he thanking me for driving them? For coming with them? If that was the case, it was I who should have been murmuring words of thanks. Or…was it because I threatened to punch him the other night, for daring to say something about how he shouldn't have come back, despite his love for Anna? Whatever the reason, I answered with a soft, "you're welcome", before taking them on to Ripon, after Anna returned.

It was a fine service. Maybe that sounds strange, considering what sort of service it was. I mean, she wore no long, elegant white gown, no veil; there was no organ playing, no church filled to the brim with staff from Downton, no vicar…just the two of them, plus a few strangers who worked in the registrar's office…and myself. I sat in the back—I'm not entirely sure why; perhaps I wanted to witness everything about that day? And felt I could only do so from where I sat?

It was over before I knew it. But despite how fast it seemed, the memory of the two of them pledging their love and devotion to one another…and watching him slip that ring on her finger…

…

…

Soon, Sybil. Soon. Soon it will be our turn. And God knows how I'll manage to say all those things to Sybil that John said to Anna without weeping! But when it was over…I…I couldn't contain myself, I started clapping, especially when he took her face into his hands and kissed her.

_Finally_, my friends have married. And like Sybil and me, they too have been waiting a long time. So if it can happen for them, then yes, yes, God yes, it can and _WILL_ happen for us.

Just a little longer. Just a few more weeks, maybe a month at most? But surely by the end of May or the beginning of June…surely _by then_, we'll be married?

…

God I hope so. Because that's the only regret I have about last night.

I now know what it's like to feel her next to me when I sleep. And God help me, I don't think I'll ever be able to sleep again without feeling her there, lying beside me in my arms.


	171. Family Invitation

_Have you ever sat down to write something, envisioning something COMPLETELY different, and then BOOM! You end up writing something else? That's what happened here! A moment which I thought would just be a brief scene became a full-fledged chapter! But that's ok, in fact, I'm really glad with how this turned out! And I think it's safe to say I was inspired by **history lady 24's** portrayal of Isobel's relationship with the Bransons that inspired me to write this, **so I am dedicating this chapter to her! ** ONLY 4 MORE CHAPTERS LEFT! I'm going to try and get the next one written and posted very soon. Thank you again for your continued support and reading! Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Seventy-One<strong>

The day that was meant to be Matthew and Lavinia's wedding day was cold and rainy. Very fitting, really. The weather matched the mood that had fallen over the house, as the last of the garlands that had been hung in celebration were replaced by the black ribbon of mourning. Sybil watched as the maids and hall boys draped the fabric across various mantle pieces around the house, and even though Lavinia had not been a member of the family, the servants were still told to wear black armbands over their uniforms.

To Sybil, the house was stifling. She didn't know if it was due to the sickness that still seemed to linger, or the shadow of Lavinia's death that hung over all of them—most likely a mixture of both.

It often seemed that when tragedy arose of any sort, the best way to combat it was to make one's self "useful", as their grandmother put it. Sybil spent much of the morning checking on her patients, the recovering housemaids, Carson, and of course, her mother.

Her mother was still recovering, although according to Dr. Clarkson, she was improving more and more every day, and there was no reason, he thought (if the weather was decent) that she couldn't attend the funeral on Monday. But until then, he felt it best that she remain in bed.

O'Brien had been ordered, quite firmly, by her mother, to get some rest herself, so it was Edith who remained by their mother's side, relieving O'Brien of her nursing duties.

Her father was busy trying to get things ready for the funeral. Sybil had had little contact with him ever since she had learned the truth about his visit to the Grantham Arms, and at the moment, wanted to keep it that way. Perhaps one day she would be able to forgive her father for his attempts at going behind her back and trying to bribe Tom into leaving her. But she doubted that forgiveness would come anytime soon (or before they left). Still, distance was helping a great deal, and perhaps it would help even more when there was a sea between them.

As for Mary, she was preoccupied with her own fiancée. At breakfast, Mary seemed very withdrawn and it was Sir Richard's idea that they go for a drive and inspect Haxby. Perhaps he thought that by getting Mary away from Downton and focused on what very well could be her future home, it would relieve her of any melancholy she was feeling. Sybil wondered if that was what it was, sadness at poor Lavinia's death...or something else. The memory of seeing Matthew and Mary dancing in the hall…and kissing…the night Lavinia took ill, was still burned into Sybil's mind. She hadn't said anything to her sister about it; she honestly had no idea how to approach the matter. And now that Lavinia was dead there seemed to be little point in bringing it up at all. But even so, Mary was still engaged to Sir Richard, and it was maddening to think that her sister would still carry on and marry the man if she was still in love with Matthew!

…Perhaps she would work up the courage to confront her sister about the matter? But not right now. Not on this day…

After a morning of going about her rounds, like she did back when she worked at the hospital, Sybil once again found herself feeling idle, as well as somewhat overwhelmed by the stifling atmosphere of a house lost in mourning. The place felt like a tomb and she needed to get out. And really, there was only one person she longed to see.

Because everybody else was occupied, Sybil met no challenges when she donned her coat and hat and took an umbrella, telling Mrs. Hughes who she saw in passing that she was going for a walk. The housekeeper didn't ask where, but Sybil had a feeling that the woman already knew. And even if she didn't, Sybil wasn't afraid to tell the truth if someone wanted to know. She had no shame; she was engaged to Tom Branson and was eagerly looking forward to the day when her name would forever be linked to his.

The Grantham Arms was the intended destination for her journey…but Sybil soon found herself making a detour.

Upon entering the village, her feet carried her to Crawley House, where she stood outside it's gate for several long moments, debating about whether or not it was proper for her to go and knock on the door on this day of all days. But her heart urged her forward, and soon she was standing outside, after giving the door a firm knock and waited…smiling at Molesley when he opened the door.

"Lady Sybil!" he gasped, surprised to see her.

"Hello," Sybil greeted, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. "I…I've come to pay my respects."

"Molesley? Who is it—oh! Sybil!"

Sybil smiled as Isabel appeared in the hall, and Molesley quickly stepped aside so that she might enter, before offering to take her coat and hat and umbrella.

"Oh my dear, it's very good of you to come," Isobel murmured, leaning forward and kissing Sybil's cheek after Molesley had removed her coat. "Won't you stay for tea?"

Sybil smiled and nodded her head, and Isobel led her to her parlor, after asking Molesley to go to Mrs. Bird and ask her to prepare some tea for them. "I apologize for coming unannounced," she began as she took a seat in the parlor.

Isobel shook her head, waving her hand dismissively. "When such things like this happen," she sadly sighed, "such formalities like announcements can easily be set aside. In truth, I prefer spontaneous visits—it shows 'true emotion', in my opinion."

Sybil smiled at that, feeling likewise. Her cousin was, she was not surprised, dressed all in black. She suddenly felt guilty for not thinking about how this tragedy had affected Isobel. In her simple observations, she had noticed a closeness between the two women who thought that one day they would be mother and daughter to each other. That night, she had thought about Matthew, and only about Matthew's grief, but how had it been for Isobel? How had she grieved? How was it affecting her still?

"I'm afraid Matthew isn't here," Isobel answered the question she had yet to ask. "He's gone to London," she went on to explain. "To…to see Mr. Swire, and bring him back."

"Of course," Sybil whispered, silently cursing herself for not even thinking about Lavinia's father. Oh the poor man; she didn't know much about him, but she was aware that he was a widower, and his health was poorly, somewhat. At least she thought she remembered Lavinia mentioning something about this. Oh gracious, she had been so preoccupied with what was happening in her own life, she hadn't been paying attention or even thinking about what was going on in the lives of others. Poor Mr. Swire…how horrible! How…how had he learned? Had someone telephoned him? Had Matthew? Had Isobel? Her father, perhaps? Or had he learned by telegram? Oh Lord, she hoped not. During the War, when a patient had died, Nurse Daniels had taken it upon herself to go and inform the proper authorities who would send the telegrams to the soldier's family. What did a person even begin to say in such letters? She felt so numb at the thought that she hadn't realized Isobel was reaching across and touching her hand until she felt the woman's gentle squeeze.

"It always seems saddest…when tragedy strikes the young," she whispered. "I…I still remember how…how shaken I was, when I received word about Matthew's injury…"

Sybil nodded her head, remembering the late night telegram that Molesley had brought to them last summer about Matthew and William's injuries. She remembered the worry and the anxiousness all of them had felt at wondering what had happened to them. And then of course there had been the news about William's death; it had shaken her so deeply…and had been the catalyst for her and Tom to finally express their true feelings for one another. And just like that night last summer, Lavinia's tragic death had sent Sybil into Tom's arms again, and once more they found themselves crossing a new threshold, this time sharing a bed and falling asleep in each other's arms. However, as far as Sybil was concerned (and she imagined Tom felt the same way) she was finished with tragedies proceeding any new barriers for the two of them to overcome.

"How are things back at the big house?" Isobel kindly asked, patting Sybil's hand.

Sybil sighed and looked up into her cousin's face. "Mama continues to improve," she began, happy for this truth, but feeling sad because it was yet another reminder that Lavinia had not.

"Good," Isobel murmured, her eyes sad, but her smile quite genuine. "I am happy to hear that."

Just then Molesley entered the parlor, carrying a tea tray, and set it down for the both of them. Isobel thanked him and then proceeded to pour the both of them a cup. As soon as Matthew's valet had left, she looked up at Sybil and asked, "And you, my dear? How are you faring?"

Sybil thanked Isobel for the cup and took it with grateful fingers, however she sighed upon hearing the question and gazed down at the dark liquid in her cup. "I…I find myself questioning that night, I must confess." Should she speak about such things? Yet Isobel of all people would understand, especially as a former nurse. "I just…I keep asking myself, 'why didn't you check on her more? Why did you spend so much time with Mama when she had O'Brien there to look after her'—"

"Oh my dear," Isobel was shaking her head. "You must cease asking such questions because there are no satisfactory answers. And you cannot blame yourself—it's natural, I know, when things like this happen, especially for nurses, but you can't. And at the time, your mother's illness seemed more severe, and besides that, she was your _mother_. It's only natural that you were more focused on her than anybody else."

"But doesn't that go against what we've been taught?" Sybil asked, leaning forward and looking directly into Isobel's eyes. "As nurses, aren't we taught to leave our personal feelings behind when it comes to caring for our patients?"

"It is, but this was a special situation, my dear. You weren't at a hospital, this was your own home, and you were the only trained nurse who was present. There was no 'outsider' to take away that burden for you. And besides…" she sighed, looking down at her own cup. "I was the one who was with Lavinia most of the day and evening. It wasn't as if she was neglected from any care." There was a pause and Sybil saw that same questioning look, the one she had been feeling ever since Lavinia died in front of her, cloud her cousin's face. "I keep asking myself, 'what did I miss?' 'Why didn't I recognize the signs?' I mean, after the first few cases started being reported around here, I read everything I could about it, and still…" she shook her head, lowering her eyes as if she were ashamed. "How can I stand there and look poor Mr. Swire in the eye? I feel as if he were depending on me to keep his daughter safe and healthy and…and I failed him…and Matthew…and Lavinia…"

Her voice had trailed off and Sybil saw tears glistening in the woman's eyes. She reached forward and took Isobel's hand in both of hers and gave it a strong, assuring squeeze. Isobel smiled at Sybil and returned the squeeze, taking several deep breaths to get her emotions under control. "In the end…I…I honestly don't know if there was anything more that could be done…but…but it's natural, of course, to blame ourselves in situations like this…" she removed a handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt and dabbed at her eyes. "That's 'the nurse's lot'; we always believe we could have done more."

"Yes," Sybil silently agreed. It was true. She recalled poor Lt. Courtney, and how she had always believed that if she had fought harder for him, or had said something to give him hope, he wouldn't have taken his life as he had. And there were others, as well; patients who seemed perfectly fine one moment, and then whose lives slipped away without warning the next. It was heartbreaking to endure…and yet, she knew she wouldn't want to do anything else. Just as she would not give Tom up, she would not give nursing up, either.

Isobel dabbed at her eyes a little more, before turning back to Sybil and giving her a kind smile. "When asked how you are faring, I actually meant…"

_Tom._ Sybil felt her cheeks heat and her eyes quickly lowered to her lap. Her cousin wanted to know how she and Tom were faring during all of this.

"Have the two of you managed to see each other since you made your announcement?"

Sybil's cheeks burned even hotter as she recalled their night together at the Grantham Arms. She gave a small nod of her head, but decided not to go into any further detail than that.

"I'm sorry I couldn't have been there to support you," Isobel sighed, picking up her teacup and taking a sip. "Yet perhaps it was just as well; your grandmother would no doubt have shot me down the second I opened my mouth, and you know how I cannot stand her dismissals," she softly chuckled. "And then the focus would have shifted to our own squabble and that wouldn't have helped either of you."

"Granny wasn't as…_negative_, as I thought she would be," Sybil confessed, taking a sip from her own cup. "She doesn't support us, but she was, at least, willing to listen." Which was more than she could say for her father.

Isobel smiled at this news. "Well, there may be hope for you and Branson yet, then. A willingness to listen is always the first step. It shows a willingness for future acceptance, I think."

She hoped so. She hoped that was true for her grandmother, and for Mary. She felt her mother was nearly there, at least based on the things she had overheard her mother say a few nights ago. But her father? Especially after the way he had tried to bribe Tom? No…she would not hold her breath where he was concerned.

"So much has happened since that night," Sybil murmured.

"Indeed," Isobel sighed, sipping her tea. Of course she understood. Barely twenty-four hours after she and Tom stood before her family, making their intentions known to the world, Spanish Flu struck Downton, and within another twenty-four hours…it had claimed poor Lavinia.

And now here they were, adorned in black and sitting in the Crawley House parlor, rather than inside the church, celebrating Matthew's wedding. Life had odd way of being both beautiful and cruel at the same time.

"I'm glad that the two of you have found opportunities to still meet, after everything," Isobel went on. She meant it too, Sybil could tell that. She liked her cousin very much; after all, had it not been for Isobel, she wondered if she ever would have pursued nursing? If she would have ever even contemplated it? But it was more than just that. Next to Tom, Isobel was the closest person Sybil felt a like-minded kinship with. She understood Sybil's passions when it to the suffrage movement, she too was progressive in her politics, and stood for reform as well. But perhaps most of all, Sybil admired that Isobel had managed to be so many things that Sybil wanted to be: a woman who both worked, and raised a family. And now that was exactly what Sybil wanted; she wanted to be Tom's wife, and to one day have children with him. But she also wanted to continue working, and get involved in politics again, perhaps in Ireland? Surely there could be some sort of women's political organization that she could join in Dublin? Perhaps Tom's mother or sisters could help her?

"Will you be seeing him today?" Isobel asked, setting her teacup aside.

Sybil blushed, but smiled and gave a little nod of her head, before a sheepish look fell across her face. "I confess...the Grantham Arms had been the purpose for my walk, but I'm very glad I came to see you, even though I am sorry to have missed Matthew."

Isobel smiled and gave a little bow of her head. "And how is Branson—heavens, I should call him 'Tom' now, I suppose," she chuckled to herself. "How is he getting on at the Grantham Arms?"

"Well, I think," Sybil answered honestly. "Although I do think he's a little bored."

"Not bored my dear, just anxious. He's eager to return to his homeland and _marry you,"_ Isobel translated, giving Sybil a teasing wink. At first Sybil stiffened at her cousin's words, wondering if they would bring any sort of sadness for her at the mention of marriage. However she didn't seem upset; if anything she looked amused! "I still remember all those packed lunches he would bring you at the hospital; I remember thinking 'how attentive!' at first, and then I started to wonder why it was that Branson kept having to bring them, why he couldn't remind you to take it yourself…and if it wasn't a packed lunch, there always seemed to be some excuse for him to visit…" she sighed and shook her head, still smiling. "Well, I suppose it shouldn't have been too surprising, now that the truth is out."

Sybil blushed but smiled and nodded. No, it really shouldn't. If anyone had listened to the conversations she and Tom had been having through the years, they would have realized how perfect the both of them were for each other.

"Forgive me for asking this," Isobel interrupted her thoughts, her face now bearing the look of sheepishness. "But…how is he managing?"

_Money._ Sybil felt her face grow hot at Isobel's implication, and yet another reminder about how she needed to start thinking about money.

"The newspaper that hired him sent him an advance," Sybil explained, lifting her chin and trying to show nothing but pride for her fiancée.

"Oh splendid!" Isobel smiled, nodding her head. "That's wonderful, and I'm sure it helps with shouldering some of the financial burden."

_Financial burden._ Yes, she supposed him staying at the Grantham Arms and waiting for her was a financial burden. And not just that, but he was also having to pay for his meals, and then of course would be their train tickets to Liverpool, and then their boat tickets, and then stretching whatever money they had once they arrived in Ireland…

How far would that money stretch? How far _had_ it stretched? Originally she had thought they would leave no later than the Tuesday after the wedding, but then everything happened so quickly, and the funeral was on Monday, and Tuesday would really be too early…

"I wonder…" Isobel voice once again interrupted her thoughts. "Do you think it would be terribly forward of me to ask that I accompany you to the Grantham Arms? And speak with Bran—I mean, Tom, just for a few minutes? I promise I will not linger and intrude upon your time together."

Sybil was surprised by the question, however she found herself nodding in agreement even before she realized what she was doing, possibly because she was just so happy at the thought that there might be another person who would support the both of them right now! She only hoped that Tom wouldn't mind, though she had a feeling once he got over his initial surprise, he'd be alright.

"Wonderful!" Isobel beamed, and then she rose to her feet, murmuring something about there being no time like the present, and Sybil quickly followed her out of the parlor and into the hall, Molesley coming forward quickly and helping them both with their coats, and within a matter of minutes, they were out the door, dodging puddles as they made their way to the village pub and inn.

Much to Sybil's relief and delight, Tom was sitting in the pub, in a somewhat large armchair in the corner, reading a newspaper by himself. He must have sensed her presence, however, because without a word he lowered the paper and then quickly rose to his feet, a smile on his lips as he crossed the room to meet her…and then paused as he realized she was not alone.

"Mrs. Crawley…" he whispered, and then gave a quick bow of his head, his eyes lowering to the ground in a practiced subservient manner, like that of a person who has spent a many, many years in service. Sybil sometimes forgot this, especially since she was so used to when it was just the two of them, and in those moments, Tom never had to be anything but her equal, and she his. "My deepest sympathies to you and Mr. Matthew—"

"Oh heavens, we can't have you speaking of Matthew in such a formal manner," Isobel interrupted. Tom lifted his head in confusion, and was surprised to see Isobel's hand extended towards his. "And please…I would prefer to be known as 'Cousin Isobel' to you."

Tom was clearly dumbfounded. "I…I beg your pardon?"

"Well, you will soon be marrying Sybil," Isobel acknowledged, her head nodding towards Sybil who was blushing deeply, but also smiling happily at Tom. "And by doing so, you become a part of my family, so therefore we shall, in our own way…be cousins to one another."

Tom was still somewhat stunned by this greeting; however after a second glance at his fiancée, he began to smile a little more and then finally took Isobel's offered hand and shook it as two equals would. "Cousin Isobel," he murmured, trying the new name which earned a grin from both women (and even a bit of a blush to Isobel's cheeks, so Sybil noticed!) Yes, Tom's accent had that sort of effect.

"May I get you something?" he offered, his hand gesturing towards the bar, trying to be a good host, but Isobel shook her head.

"No thank you, I won't keep you for very long, I understand how precious these moments are…" her voice trailed off slightly and Sybil noticed a sad light in the back of the woman's eyes. Was she thinking about Lavinia? Or perhaps her own life? Sybil realized that she didn't know a great deal about her cousin's life before she and Matthew came to Downton. She knew very little about Matthew's father, other than that he was a doctor. And she hated the fact that only now, as she stood on the brink of saying goodbye, was she coming to realize that there were still so many things she needed to learn about the people she loved.

_All the more reason to stay in contact,_ a soft voice reminded her. Indeed. All the more the reason to work hard at keeping those bonds strong.

Tom led them both to a table near the corner where he had been sitting and pulled chairs out for both of them (_ever the gentleman,_ Sybil thought to herself with a proud grin.) As soon as he sat down himself, Isobel did not hesitate to get to the point.

"The thing is, Tom—is that alright, by the way? Calling you 'Tom'?"

"Of course," he answered, looking sincere and even a little bashful. "We are, as you said, going to be family soon." He looked over and Sybil and she soon found herself blushing, especially as she felt his hand reach out for hers beneath the table and run along the length of her wrist, before settling down to her fingers and giving them a loving squeeze which she eagerly returned.

"I'm glad you said that, because that is how I want you to understand my offer," Isobel went on.

"Offer?" Tom asked, looking a bit confused. He glanced at Sybil, but she looked just as confused. What did Isobel mean?

"Yes, you see…" she paused, as if trying to carefully choose her words. "…I'm aware that both of you will soon be making your journey to Ireland, yes?"

Tom turned his head and looked at his fiancée, and Sybil gazed back at him, smiling and squeezing his hand. "We haven't had the chance yet to discuss when, but…" she looked at Tom. "I was thinking…Wednesday, perhaps?"

Tom nodded his head, squeezing her hand in return. "Aye, Wednesday sounds good," he murmured in reply. It was still a long time in some respects, but it was a decision, and that was what mattered.

"Tom? Forgive me, I hope I do not offend you when I ask…how far in advance have you paid for your stay here?"

Sybil noticed how Tom stiffened slightly at her question, however he didn't show signs of offense or shame. "When I first came here, I had paid up until Monday; however I have spoken to the innkeeper about the possibility of extending my stay if it were necessary."

Isobel nodded. "I thought so; well, I wanted to make an offer to you—an invitation, really. Of course, you have every right to decline if you wish, and I will not think you rude if you do, but all the same, I would like to make this offer."

Both Tom and Sybil were leaning close, curious as to what she was trying to say.

"I would like to invite you, Tom, to come and stay at Crawley House, until it is time for you and Sybil to make your departure."

"Oh!" Sybil gasped, and turned and looked at her fiancée with wide eyes. She had not been expecting that! However, she did think it was very kind, yet she knew in the end it was Tom's decision, and she knew he could be a very proud man when it came to how he managed and handled his money.

Tom had certainly been taken by surprise. His mouth had fallen open, and his eyes were wide. "Stay…stay with you and Mr. Matthew at Crawley House?"

"Yes, although please do not think of this as charity. I am making the offer because you are Sybil's fiancée and, as I said before, by being engaged to her, in my eyes, you are now my family. And I do believe I can speak on behalf of my son and say that he would agree with me."

"But would he agree to me staying with you at Crawley House?" Tom countered. Sybil glanced back at Isobel, waiting for her cousin's answer. It was true, Matthew was fairly close to her father; and while she believed Matthew was his own man and would make his own decisions, at the same time, she knew that Matthew worked very hard to keep the peace. She still remembered how he had more or less shushed Isobel that night at dinner when she had started to say something in her and Tom's favor.

"And…beggin' your pardon, ma'am, but…" he glanced at Sybil before returning his gaze to Isobel. "It is still Lord Grantham's house, and…and I don't want to bring any trouble—"

"Oh Branson, if you think by accepting my invitation to come and stay as a guest in _my home_ will somehow bring as much if not more trouble than when you stood in that drawing room and announced that you and Sybil were going to be married…" she was laughing whole-heartedly now, and even though Tom's face had flushed deeply, he was smiling rather bashfully as well.

"Oh my," Isobel was still grinning as her laughter calmed. "Let me assure you that Crawley House, while yes it does belong to the Earl of Grantham, is _my_ home and _I_ am its mistress." Sybil couldn't help but smile at the firm way in which her cousin spoke. "And despite my age," she went on. "I still remember what it was like, being a new married couple, and all the new responsibilities we suddenly found ourselves having to see to." Money. She wasn't saying the words, but Sybil knew that was what Isobel was implying. That she was aware that the money they had, even with his advance, wasn't a great deal. Money that could be going towards their future home instead was being spent on a room for him to stay in while he (again) waited for her to be ready.

"Please?" Isobel asked, looking into Tom's eyes. "Consider this my engagement present to you both."

Sybil noticed his hesitance, and wasn't sure if it was because he was because he was worried about how Matthew or her father would react if he said "yes", or because of his pride at wanting to prove to the world that they didn't need any "charity". However, she adored Isobel in how she was broaching the matter, and how she kept emphasizing over and over that this wasn't charity; he was family now.

"I…I confess, I would feel more comfortable with giving an answer if I knew how Mr. Mat—" he paused and corrected himself. "How…_Matthew_…" he tried the name and both she and Isobel smiled. "If I knew how he felt."

"I understand," Isobel sighed. "Matthew has gone to London to bring Mr. Swire back to Downton for the funeral," she explained.

"Monday at eleven," Sybil whispered. That had been another reason for her wish to see him; to inform him of when the funeral would be.

"I don't know if I will have a chance to speak with him this evening about the matter, but tomorrow I am sure there will be an opportunity."

Tom nodded his head, glancing at Sybil out of the corner of his eye, before looking into Isobel's eyes once more. "Please don't think I'm ungrateful for the offer. I am…and…and yes, I understand what you mean about 'new responsibilities'," he murmured, his cheeks just slightly red with embarrassment. "But the only reason I hesitate, if I am honest, is because…I don't want to bring Matthew any bad memories—"

"Bad memories?" Isobel looked confused.

Tom sighed and squeezed Sybil's hand. "I'm a man like him…who is also engaged…"

_And whose fiancée is still living._ Sybil lowered her eyes as she realized what Tom was trying to say, and felt her heart swell with love for his careful consideration, as well as with pity for Matthew.

"Ah, I see," Isobel murmured, looking down at her lap. She lifted her eyes and gave Tom a kind smile. "That is very considerate of you. However, I do not think that will be a problem—yet I will still speak with Matthew, if that will give you some peace of mind in helping you make your decision?"

Tom nodded his head, looking grateful for Isobel's understanding, as well as very humbled by her offer. She felt humbled as well, and turned to look at her cousin with thankful eyes, not just because she was opening up her home to Tom to relieve him from having to continue to dip into whatever money he had saved, but also for her acceptance of them both…and for seeing Tom as family, and telling him so.

Isobel rose to her feet then, and Tom quickly rose as well, leaning across the table to shake her hand once more and thank her for the very reasons Sybil had been thinking, emphasizing that he was grateful for the offer, and would give it careful consideration. Isobel smiled and returned the shake, before leaning across the table to kiss Sybil's cheek in parting. However, as Sybil watched her cousin turn to leave, she felt the need to say something herself, so quickly followed the woman out of the pub, thankful that the rain had stopped and a patch of sun was trying to make its way through the thick clouds.

"Cousin Isobel, thank you so much! I…I don't even know how to express my thanks for your support and acceptance—"

"I think you've done a decent job already," Isobel chuckled, her gloved fingers gently stroking Sybil's cheek. There was a look in her eyes, one that reminded Sybil of her mother. "My dear…may I…may I say something that…well, that you may perhaps find shocking?"

Sybil's eyes widened at her cousin's question, but nodded her head, curious as to what the woman had to say.

Isobel smiled and let her fingers fall to Sybil's shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze. "When Matthew and I first came to Downton, I confess…I found myself wondering how on earth the two of us were going to get on with your family. Your grandmother and I were at each other's throats, and I didn't feel any sort of kinship, I'm afraid, with your mother, and as for your sisters, well, outside of 'typical polite conversation' one would have around a tea tray, there was nothing we had in common…but then I met you, and…I remembered thinking, 'here is a person who I can sit and talk to'; 'here is someone who I can not only be myself with, but who will truly appreciate that'!"

Sybil blushed, but smiled and looked down at her feet. Granny would no doubt blame Isobel for being such a "bad influence" on Sybil, but Sybil was so grateful to her cousin for helping her better understand the woman she wanted to become, and giving her hope that yes, she could be that person.

"I love Matthew," Isobel went on after a moment's pause. "I do, I dearly, dearly love him; he's my precious boy. But I will not deny, there were times in my life when I thought how nice it would be to have a daughter," she sighed.

Sybil bit her lip and looked up at her cousin. Was she thinking about Lavinia? Had they been very close?

"And…" Isobel looked back at Sybil and Sybil noticed how pink her cousin's cheeks had become. "And I will also not deny that there was, for a brief time, a part of me that thought how perfect you would have been for him."

Sybil stared at Isobel with wide eyes as her cousin's words washed over her. Did she mean…? _Her and Matthew!?_

"Of course you were very young," Isobel added quickly. "And it was quite clear to whom Matthew favored amongst you girls," she chuckled to herself, although it was a sad sound. "But your ideals seemed so similar, and I thought with your progressive mind and his hopes to bring some modernization to Downton, that would be a winning combination."

Sybil honestly didn't know what to say. She did recall that very, _very brief_ moment, when she had looked at Matthew as her "white knight", but outside of that moment, she had never found herself attracted to him. Yes, she thought him decent, kind, handsome, and she feel a bit of a kinship with him for the very reasons Isobel had mentioned, but…he was never the man for her.

"He wasn't political enough for you," Isobel commented, as if reading Sybil's thoughts. Sybil blushed and her cousin chuckled again, before reaching out and squeezing Sybil's shoulders, her eyes dancing over to the pub window where Tom stood watching them. "Oh my dear, despite those past thoughts, I truly do think you have found the man best suited for you, and who I believe will make you very happy."

Her blush only grew, but she turned her eyes upwards and gave Isobel a thankful smile. "Yes," she whispered, agreeing whole-heartedly.

"It will take work, of course," her cousin added. "Every marriage does."

Sybil nodded her head in understanding. She was aware of this, despite the dismissive answer she had given to her father a few days ago; she was aware that her life would be very different from the one she had always known. Not only was she moving to another country and marrying a working class man and going to live in a small flat where they would have no servants to tend to them, but she would also have to learn things like managing a budget, economizing, and changing her outlook on so many little things that she had never given a great deal of thought to. And as much as she loved Tom and he loved her, she was not so naïve to think that any problems they encountered could be solved with a simple kiss or a cuddle in each other's arms. Indeed, as Isobel said, it would take work, a great deal of work!

…And yet despite the anxiety she felt in the pit of her stomach about those challenges, she welcomed them with open arms.

She was going to marry Tom. He would be her husband; she would have no other.

"Sybil?"

Her gaze returned to her cousin's, who was looking at her with both tenderness, as well as admiration.

"No doubt you are aware that…that what you and Tom are doing…well, that you are not the first pair of 'star-crossed lovers', shall we say, to try and overcome such obstacles in order to be together."

Sybil blushed but shook her head. "As Granny would say, 'these sorts of things are all very good in novels'…"

"Ah yes, that does sound like something she would say," Isobel groaned, which did bring a smile to Sybil's face. "And…well, she is right to a point; the odds are stacked against the both of you, I'm afraid."

_No one is expecting us to make it; everyone thinks that I'll come running back to England, crying about what a terrible mistake I've made. And yet how apt that she says those words, about "odds"; didn't Tom ask me to bet on him? And hasn't he been doing that very thing with me? Love, and marriage I suppose, are gambles. And yet despite all these 'odds', I would bet everything I have in the world on Tom Branson…every single time._

"However," Isobel was quick to add. "Despite all those other stories, if anyone can beat those odds…it would be the two of you."

Sybil stared at her cousin, her vision blurring with thankful tears at the woman's words. It was nice—_very nice_—to have someone else believe that, too.

"I do wish you and Tom every joy," she murmured, leaning close and enfolding Sybil in a grateful hug. "And on a personal, selfish note," she whispered into her ear. "I can't wait for you to prove your grandmother wrong!"


	172. Betting on Each Other

_So remember how I mentioned in the last chapter that I had sat down to write one thing and something else happened? *THIS* was the chapter I had meant to write (which covers Lavinia's funeral) and I had originally meant to write it all from Sybil's POV...but after my muse "hijacked" the last chapter, it decided to do the same with this one, and insisted that it be told from Tom's perspective...and I'm glad it was. And I hope you enjoy that too! There are also some flashbacks here, with a little hint as to what married life will be like for the Bransons (oh, did I mention that Love's Continuing Journey will start out with a T rating, but eventually get bumped up to M?) ;o)_

_Anway, ONLY 3 MORE LEFT! Thanks again for reading and following (and putting up with) this story as I neglect my others to dedicate all my time and attention to finishing this one (I appreciate your patience, those of you who are fans of those other stories). Again, thank you and hope you enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Seventy-Two<strong>

Monday was a stark contrast to Saturday. The sun was shining and there was a warm breeze in the air that promised a fair spring. Tom paused to take note of the beauty of the village in early spring as he made his way from the Grantham Arms to the village church where Miss Swire's funeral would be taking place.

He had not seen Sybil since Saturday, and no matter how much he wished that he could be by her side during the service, and hold the hand of his own beloved fiancée, he knew it would be impossible. Lord Grantham and his men would be watching him like hawks, he had little doubt. And the last thing he would want to do on a day such as this was take away attention from Miss Swire. So despite his personal wishes, he would sit in the back of the sanctuary, and keep to the back as the service moved to the church yard for the burial. When it was all over, that would be when he would speak to Sybil.

The funeral would also mark the first time he would be in the presence of the entire Crawley family since the night he and Sybil had made their announcement. After Mrs. Crawley's visit on Saturday, the two of them retreated to a quiet corner of the pub, where they shared a booth and a pint of cider. Sybil told him all about how her mother was improving, that it looked like she would be well enough to attend Monday's funeral, so long as she stayed in bed and got plenty of rest until then. He was glad to hear this, knowing how much Sybil cared for her mother and especially glad since Sybil believed that her mother would come to support them (or at least, support her, which in Tom's mind was all that mattered).

Sybil had also informed him about how she had been starting to go through her things, trying to decide what to take and what to leave behind. Tom's heart broke a little bit as he listened to her talk; he wished he could tell her to back everything, to bring anything that she wanted, that money was no object, when of course…it was.

"_Will two trunks be too many?" she asked. "I can sort through my things and make it just one, if needs be."_

Oh Lord, how could he say no to that? He wasn't a rich man and never would be. But such luxuries as this he would bend over backwards for. After all, she was making a very big transition in coming to Ireland to be with him. Surely having two trunks of memories from her home would make that transition smoother?

"_I'm being practical," she told him, smiling and lifting her nose rather haughtily. He wanted to pull her onto his lap and kiss her nose, and it was taking all his willpower not to. After all, this wasn't some London pub in Piccadilly where nobody knew them. _

"_Two trunks should be fine, love," he reassured, allowing himself the luxury of holding her hand and running his thumb over her knuckles. "I'm sorry it can't be more…" he sighed and looked down at their fingers, thinking of all the things he couldn't provide for her, all of the things he wished he could give her but because of their—_his_ situation, he would have to deny her._

_Sybil squeezed his hand. "I'm not."_

_He looked up and met her eyes…and thought his heart might burst at the love he saw reflected back. She meant it, God bless her; what had he done to deserve such an extraordinary woman?_

"_May I make one request?" he found himself asking, feeling a bit cheeky, but he couldn't help it; he had to ask. "Bring your special frock."_

_She looked confused at first. "My special frock?"_

_He nodded his head, feeling his own cheeks grow hot at both his request and the memory of seeing her through that drawing room window when he had no business being anywhere near there. "The one that you had the dressmaker's in Ripon make for you, specially."_

_She still looked confused, and Tom felt even more embarrassed at his vagueness. She had a great many frocks made "specially" for her. He would have to be more specific. _

"_Your harem pants," he mumbled._

"My what!?"

_Was she teasing him? Or was she really unaware about what he was talking about?_

_ He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Your harem pants," he repeated. "The special blue frock you had made, not long after I started working—"_

_"Yes, yes, I know which one you mean," she giggled and Tom's eyes widened as he realized his initial instincts had been correct: she was teasing him. "I just wanted to hear you say 'harem pants' again," she laughed._

_He growled and without warning, moved swiftly to her side of the booth, causing her to gasp as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and practically loomed over her, his mouth growling against her neck and ear, knowing that the vibrations tickled her skin and caused her to shiver. "You're a lucky woman, Nurse Crawley—"_

_ "Don't I know it," she giggled, blushing deeply as she met his ferocious gaze with one that was just as passionate. God he loved her; he couldn't help but smile at her boldness._

_ "You're lucky that there are so many people in this place," he explained, his lips trailing across the smooth skin of her neck, his teeth just grazing it, but doing nothing more. He grinned as he felt Sybil shiver and heard her whimper low in her throat._

_ "W-w-why is that?" she gasped as his tongue darted out to trace her pulse._

_"Because if we were all alone," he groaned, his lips rising to her ear. "I would have no choice…but to lift you up…place on you this very table…"_

_ She was holding her breath, waiting for him to finish the scenario he had begun to paint. _

_ "And flip you over, so I could proceed to spank your backside."_

"WHAT!?"

_He couldn't help but laugh as she suddenly turned a dark shade of red, especially when several patrons nearby turned to see what all the commotion was after her outburst. _

_ Sybil gave him a look that would freeze fire, which only had him laughing harder. "I'm sorry, love, did…" he tried to get his laughter under control and look back at her innocently. "Did you think I meant something else?"_

_ She answered with a mighty swat at his chest, which didn't stop him from laughing, but he did glance over his shoulder at the rest of the pub, noticed how no one seemed to be paying any attention to them, and then proceeded to kiss her long and deep, moaning as he felt her lips respond to his._

_ "You're a cruel tease, Tom Branson," she told him when they parted, her voice panting slightly after their kiss._

"_Me?" he asked, looking shocked. _

_ She tried to look stern but couldn't help but giggle, which only made him grin and want to kiss her some more. She stopped him though, by placing her fingers against his lips, and when he looked into her eyes, saw that she had lifted an elegant brow in a sweet, coy manner. "So you wish for me to bring my 'harem pants', as you call them, to Dublin?"_

_ Now it was his turn to blush, and he nodded his head, her fingers still against his lips. _

_ She grinned at this and then he saw a wicked light start to glow in her eyes. "And…will there be an occasion for me to wear them while there?"_

_ Despite his efforts to suppress it, a groan rose up from his chest as the many fantasies he had had about her in that frock began to dance across his mind's eye. _

_Her grin grew wider and she had the look of the preverbal cat that'd swallowed the canary. "I'll take that as a yes then," she giggled. She was getting much better at her flirting, or rather, much more confident in herself when it came to purposefully driving him wild with desire. It actually eased his anxieties when he thought about their future, or more specifically, their "intimate" future as husband and wife. After all, she herself had told how much she was "looking forward to it"…_

They had shared another deep kiss, but then Tom somehow managed to force himself back to his side of the booth before passionate thoughts about Sybil in her harem frock got the better of him and he did act on his words by lifting her up and placing her on that table…and doing something entirely different than what he had described (although that thought had him groaning and crossing his legs uncomfortably as well). They talked a little longer, about going and seeing Gwen and her family before leaving, and Sybil then told him about the kind offer from her friend Susan, that if they needed a place to stay while in Liverpool, she would open her home to them. It was decided then, that they would, as Sybil had mentioned when talking to Mrs. Crawley, that they would leave Downton on Wednesday, go to Gwen's, and then spend Wednesday night in Liverpool, making a fresh start to Ireland on Thursday. Tom also told her he would write to his family, to let them know about their plans and when to expect their arrival. He would send a telegram as well, because he had doubts that the letter would arrive on time. But still he would write, because his mother would want more details than what a telegram would allow, even if that meant those details would be arriving a day or two after they had already showed up.

They parted then, Tom promising he would see her again on Monday, and that was that. He went to Ripon on Sunday to attend his first Sunday morning mass in nearly a year. If he ever did go to church while an employee for his Lordship, it had been on Saturday nights or during the week, but the last Sunday morning mass he could think he had attended was on Easter Sunday of the previous year. He went to confession like a good Catholic boy should, he lit several candles and said several special prayers, for good health and recovery to her Ladyship and Mr. Carson, for comfort to Mr. Matthew and Mr. Swire in their grief, for joy and happiness to the newly-married John and Anna Bates, and for himself and Sybil…as they prepared to follow in their footsteps into their own marriage. He prayed for a safe journey home, for acceptance, for understanding from both their families, and yes, he lit three candles in honor of those who had died: Martin, William, and now, Miss Swire.

The rest of his Sunday was fairly quiet. He spent it mainly in his room, contemplating several future articles that he could write for his new job, including one about the devastation of the Spanish Flu, and how such horrible diseases didn't pay any heed to class boundaries, when he heard a gentle knock on his door. The person who greeted him on the other side was an even bigger surprise.

"_Mr. Crawley?" he managed to gasp as he stared back into the pale face of the future Earl of Grantham. _

_Matthew swallowed and dipped his head slightly, before leaning on his cane and extending a hand towards him. "Branson…" _

_Tom looked down at the man's hand and after a brief moment of hesitation, took it in his own and shook it. "My deepest sympathies," he murmured, trying to push any awkwardness aside though it was difficult, he couldn't deny._

_Matthew gave a small smile at that and nodded his head. "Thank you," he murmured back, before coughing and clearing his throat and finally lifting his eyes back to meet Tom's. "I understand that…that my mother offered you a place to stay at Crawley House until you and Sybil…" he paused for a moment and once again, lowered his eyes, cleared his throat, before lifting them again to meet Tom's. "Before you depart for Ireland," he finished._

_Tom felt slightly embarrassed, and he briefly wondered if Mrs. Crawley had purposefully sent her son to go and speak with him about her invitation. Even though Matthew was being very formal and "to the point", it was obvious to Tom that inside, he was still in shock after everything that had happened recently, and once again, his heart went out to the man for the loss he had suffered._

"_She did," he finally answered. "And I thanked her for the invitation, but I did explain—"_

"_Yes, I know," Matthew interrupted, his eyes wandering all over the space, doing everything he could, it seemed to avoid Tom's. Tom didn't recognize it as a slight against him, but rather…as a man's last attempt at holding onto his sanity when all he wanted to do was scream and shout for the madness of his world crashing down around him. "Anyway, I…I wanted you to know that it's fine…with me…" he explained briefly, his eyes coming back to Tom's for a brief moment, before flitting away again to focus on something else. "You are welcome to stay," he added, in case Tom hadn't understood him._

_He did, and he murmured a soft, "Thank you," lowering his own eyes because he didn't want to insult Matthew with the pity that filled them. _

"_Good…splendid, excellent…" Matthew murmured, coughing and clearing his throat once more. "I um…I shall tell Mother as soon as I return."_

_He turned to leave then, and Tom watched as the man took a few steps, noticing how his shoulders were slumped but his head was lifted high—the posture of a man battling the grief that gripped him, and trying with every fiber of his being to keep it bay. However, he was surprised to see Matthew stop, and then slowly turn around to face him…and even more surprised to see the tears that were swimming in the other man's clear blue eyes._

"_I envy you, Branson…" he whispered, his words soft but clear. _

_Tom stood frozen, unsure what to say or how to respond._ The man who will be the Earl of Grantham envies…me?

_A wry smile curled at the corners of Matthew's mouth then, and his eyes moved elsewhere, just as they had done before. "Staying true to your principles…marrying the woman you love…not caring what others think…and having the reassurance that she loves you in return…" he paused and brought his hand to his mouth, closing his eyes for a moment, before lowering his hand and lifting his eyes once again to meet Tom's. "Yes…yes I can't help but envy you a great deal."_

"_Mr. Crawley—"_

"_I'm sorry, I must be going," Matthew interrupted with a cough, before turning and walking away as briskly as his cane would allow. "But I will tell Mother that we will be expecting you. Good night." And without another word, he turned a corner and descended the stairs._

Tom contemplated Matthew's words for a long time that night. At first, he thought perhaps that what Matthew "envied" about him was the fact that his fiancée, by the grace of God, was still living. But he realized there was more to it than that.

"_Staying true to your principles…marrying the woman you love…not caring what others think…and having the reassurance that she loves you in return…"_

Sybil had always suspected that her sister and Mr. Matthew were still in love with each other. It was something that Tom had wondered about from time to time, however in the end, he assumed that Matthew's feelings for Miss Swire must be greater than whatever he felt for Lady Mary, hence why he was proceeding with the marriage.

…Or perhaps not?

Did Matthew still love Lady Mary? Did he still want her? Had he been simply…settling, in marrying Miss Swire?

The thought angered Tom, and for a moment he found himself wondering if it were possible for him to stay under the same roof as Matthew Crawley. Granted, while he hadn't known Miss Swire very well, no woman deserved—no person, really—deserved to be treated in such a belittling way. Suddenly all the pity he had been feeling for the future earl left him, and for a brief moment he felt glad that Miss Swire's death had spared her from such a horrible fate as being married to man who didn't truly love or respect you…and then he felt immense guilt for that thought and immediately got down on his knees by his bedside and prayed for forgiveness.

He thought sleep would be difficult for him after this revelation, but it actually came to him quite easily and quite peacefully. He thought about Sybil, and how glad he was that despite the years of waiting, that they had waited until both of them were sure—and now that they were, he was, as Matthew said, assured of her love for him; so assured that he had spoken those words without fear to his Lordship about knowing that Sybil would come to him if he called for her, that she would stand by his side and hold firmly to him, just as he would hold firmly to her.

He had no doubts about her love, or her faithfulness to him. And when morning's rays pushed through the curtains to awake him that Monday, his initial shock and anger towards Matthew had dissipated with the darkness, and now he only prayed that the man would find forgiveness within himself, for it was obvious to Tom now that the thing that was weighing down on Matthew's shoulders as he walked away, was incredible guilt. He was aware of the sins he had committed, both to Miss Swire, and to his own heart. And Tom hoped he would find peace.

When he arrived at the church, practically every pew was filled. Tom couldn't help but wonder if all who had gathered were genuine mourners, or if some of them had come to see the spectacle of a Downton funeral. He found a quiet place to sit in the back, away from most of his former colleagues. He saw the back of Mr. Carson's head and gave a brief smile, glad that the butler was feeling well enough to attend. His smile grew as he noticed both John and Anna Bates sitting side by side, and then his eyes continued moving, searching for others that he knew and finding them, including Mrs. Hughes, Thomas, Miss O'Brien, and much to his surprise, Daisy (Mrs. Patmore, who no doubt was back at the house preparing the luncheon to follow, clearly felt she could spare the kitchen maid). He noticed that Jane was missing; not that he knew her as well as some of the others, but he was still surprised that she wasn't there.

He sat up a little straighter as he saw the family process in. Matthew and short, elderly looking gentleman whom Tom could only assume was Mr. Swire, led the procession, with Mrs. Crawley right behind, and behind her the rest of the Crawley family: his Lordship, the Dowager Countess, her Ladyship, who was flagged on either side by Edith and Sybil, and at the end, Lady Mary and Sir Richard Carlisle.

Sybil didn't see him, but that was alright. The last thing he wanted to do was detract any attention away from the purpose as to why they were all gathered. Mr. Travis climbed up to his pulpit and welcomed and thanked everyone for attending, before leading the congregation in prayer.

It wasn't a very long service. Before he knew it, everyone was rising to their feet to follow the pallbearers out to the church yard, where it would continue at the graveside. Everyone bowed their heads in respect as the coffin passed, and Tom watched out of the corner of his eye as Matthew led the congregation out behind it. Because he was still recovering from his spinal injury, he wasn't able to serve as a pallbearer. Tom wondered if that was something he would have wanted to do. He himself had served as pallbearer for William…and his own father. He wished he could have done that for Martin…

Once again, he kept to the back of the crowd when the service moved to the graveside. However, unlike in the church, he did catch the eye of several people, including Mr. Carson who seemed to stiffen at the sight of him, but the man didn't say anything, just promptly turned his head and faced forward, pretending he didn't exist. Mrs. Hughes caught sight of him as well, but unlike the Downton butler, she did give him a small smile. Daisy even lifted a hand and waved at him, but one look from Mr. Carson, and she quickly lowered it and stared straight ahead.

He watched Sybil, who stood between her sisters near the front, hands and arms gently folded in front of her. She wore a hat with a black lacy veil, and when she turned her head he could see two pearl-drop earrings dangle in the breeze. Perhaps some would think such "decorations" to be inappropriate? But to him…they seemed very true to who Sybil was. Not to mention, in a strange sense, a way to honor Miss Swire. Again, he had barely known the woman, and yet he had a feeling she would approve of Sybil's earrings.

The service, like that in the church, was not very long either. He watched with a heavy heart as both Matthew and Mr. Swire threw in fistfuls of dirt after Mr. Travis, and then the final prayer was murmured, and it was over. People turned to disperse, Mr. Carson gathering the rest of the Downton staff and urging them to go on back to the house. He was tempted to go and speak to a few of them—despite everything, he truly did miss them. But now was not the appropriate time; when would it be? He wasn't sure, but hopefully, someday…he would very much like to return to see them again.

He turned his gaze back towards the Crawley family, and that was when he caught Sybil's eye. She was dabbing at her nose with a handkerchief when she looked up, and despite the obvious signs of tears on her cheeks, she smiled at him and Tom smiled back. They didn't speak, but he knew what her heart was saying to him. She would meet with him soon; he would just go and wait for her around the corner.

Edith saw him too, and like Daisy, she gave a small smile and lifted her hand in greeting. He did the same to her, and then lowered it quickly when her Ladyship turned and saw him. Even though Sybil had told him what she had overheard her mother say and how she believed her mother was coming to accept Sybil's decisions, that didn't mean she approved of him. No doubt, in Lady Grantham's eyes he was still (and perhaps always would be) "the enemy", because he was "taking her baby away". No, there was no smile exchanged between him and the Countess of Grantham, however he wouldn't call the look that she gave him one of disdain, either. Curiosity, actually. As if she was trying to make sense of her daughter's decision in choosing to marry the former chauffeur.

He decided it was best to go and wait for Sybil on the other side of the church; he didn't want his Lordship to see him and start a scene, not here, not on this day. However he did notice out of the corner of his eye Lady Mary moving away from Sir Richard to go and speak with Matthew who remained at Miss Swire's graveside. Mrs. Crawley was already leading away poor Mr. Swire, who looked even more feeble and worn than when Tom had seen him in the church. In the distance, Tom saw a lone figure standing near several small, square tombstones and quickly recognized the man to be Mr. Mason, William's father. Had he been at the funeral? He thought about going and saying something, but stopped himself when he noticed Daisy approaching the man who was her father-in-law, and knew it was best to let the two of them have a moment together.

With a deep sigh, he rounded the corner and waited, twisting his cap in his hands as he did. Thankfully, he didn't have to wait for very long, because he felt a hand touch his elbow and right away, without even having to look, he knew whose hand it was.

"I'm so glad you came," she murmured, smiling up at him and quickly taking his hand.

He smiled back and lifted her fingers to lips, giving them a gentle kiss before entwining his fingers with hers. "I told you I would be here," he murmured back, squeezing her hand in affection.

"I know," she sighed, looking down at their hands and smiling again. "I just…I confess, I was looking for you during the service and when I didn't see you—"

"I kept to the back," he explained. "I didn't want to cause a scene." Now that shadow of Spanish Flu was being lifted from Downton, Tom had little doubt that the next piece of gossip would be how the Earl of Grantham's youngest was running away to Ireland to marry the chauffeur. "You look beautiful, by the way."

She blushed then and he couldn't help but smile at the rather bashful grin that graced her lips. Perhaps it wasn't the sort of thing a person should notice or say at a funeral, but once again, he had a feeling that Miss Swire would approve.

"Thank you," she murmured, looking down bashfully. "Although unlike my 'harem pants', I don't think I'll be bringing this frock with me."

He chuckled at her joke and nodded his head agreement. "No, I confess, while you look lovely in everything, I prefer your more colorful gowns than those that are solid black." They both shared a smile then, although there was sadness in it as well. "I like your earrings," he quickly added, not wanting to add more to the sorrow she was already feeling.

Sybil smiled at this and blushed once again. "Thank you," she whispered, before turning her head back and forth just a little to let the earrings dangle and dance every which way. "I…" she looked down at took a deep breath before continuing. "I actually wore them for Lavinia," she explained. "On the night I first met her, I was wearing these earrings and she told me she liked them…liked how they 'danced' whenever I turned my head," she blushed once more, and Tom noticed how she brought her handkerchief up to quickly dab at her eyes again. "It's silly, I know—"

"No, love," he reassured. "No; it's not silly at all. It's rather beautiful, actually."

She smiled then and they squeezed each other's hands, the look in her eyes thanking him for understanding, as well as telling him how deeply she loved him. Oh how he wished he could wrap his arms around her and feel her own embrace him. Yet out of the corner of his eye he saw movement, and so did Sybil.

Lord Grantham. And by his side stood his mother, the Dowager Countess, and the vicar, Mr. Travis. They appeared to be in deep conversation, but Lord Grantham had taken notice of the both of them and Tom could see that the man was debating about whether or not to approach and say anything.

Tom noticed how Sybil seemed to stiffen at the sight of her father, and she tried to turn her head away and look as if she hadn't noticed, that she didn't care that he was there and that she wasn't paying him any attention. But that was becoming harder to do, especially now that his Lordship was starting to approach.

A small groan escaped Sybil's lips, and she looked up into his eyes, pretending to be the midst of a conversation by mumbling, "It's so sad," as if that would somehow deter his Lordship from saying anything.

But it didn't. Nor did it stop the Earl of Grantham from being very direct and to the point.

"Why are you here?"

Tom closed his eyes very briefly, as if summoning all the patience he had. For Sybil's sake, for Miss Swire's, he would not take the bait and lash out at the man.

"To pay my respects to Miss Swire, and to see Sybil," he answered matter-of-factly.

"Lady Sybil," his Lordship corrected, an air of haughtiness and warning in his voice. _Once again, trying to put me in my place,_ Tom thought. _Still think you have the monopoly on honor…_

However it was Sybil who responded, her annoyance quite clear, especially in her choice of words. "Oh Papa, what's the point in all that nonsense?"

Was it his imagination? Or did the man seemed to flinch at her words?

If he had, he seemed to quickly recover. "I suppose you'll go to Dublin now," he muttered, looking back and forth between the both of them. "Isn't that your plan?"

Again it was Sybil who answered, and Tom felt her hand stiffen in his. Yet he gave it a gentle squeeze, which she returned before answering, trying her best to keep her voice from shaking. "In a day or two," she stated. "Mama is well again, and I see no reason to delay. Although…" she paused for a moment, and his heart ached as he heard the sadness in her voice. Sadness and disappointment. "Although…I do so wish we could have parted friends."

His Lordship didn't say anything at first, and then he turned his eyes upon him and Tom held the man's gaze with a strong one of his own. "What about you?" Do you want to part friends?"

He didn't know if the man was mocking them or not. But if he were, once again he wouldn't take the bait. He squeezed Sybil's hand and lifted his chin as he truthfully answered, "I do. Although I don't expect to."

A shaky breath escaped Sybil's lips and Tom once again squeezed her hand, before turning and encouraging her to follow. He wanted to lead her away from there, knowing how she despised crying in front of others, and especially knowing how angry she was right now with his Lordship. Yet they had only just turned their backs on the man when his voice stopped them with a murmured, "All right."

It was soft, and Tom wasn't even sure if he had heard it. But Sybil clearly had heard something as well, because she turned and looked back at Lord Grantham, and her lips parted and her face paled, and her eyes widened…and despite all that anger she had boiled up inside her, it seemed to lift as hope flooded her voice. "What?"

_Don't you dare give her false hope, you bastard,_ Tom found himself silently growling at the earl. He wouldn't tolerate that; he would not let anyone hurt her, including her own father. Indeed, he met the other man's eyes with skepticism, searching Lord Grantham's face for any signs of mockery.

…And yet the steel resolve he had seen earlier seemed to have melted somewhat. And when he spoke next, his voice, while soft like before, seemed a little…gentler. Resigned, even. And dare he hope…accepting?

"Well, if I can't stop you, I see no profit in a quarrel," he sighed. He looked directly at Sybil, then, and the look in his eyes was one filled with fatherly concern. "You'll have a very different life from the one you might have lived. But if you're sure it's what you want…?"

Tom looked at her and held his breath, seeing the tears swim in her eyes again, only this time there was a smile spreading across her face, making her look even more radiant than before. She turned then and looked directly into his eyes, and he thought his heart would burst at the pride and certainty he saw.

"I am."

Such simple words. And yet they carried so much weight.

She turned back to her father then, her smile growing by the second; Tom struggled with paying attention to his Lordship because he was too enraptured with watching her go from despair to happiness.

"Then you may take my blessing with you, whatever that means," his Lordship sighed, still clearly showing that he wasn't _completely_ accepting of their decision…but no longer would he stand in the way. And no longer would Sybil be made to feel like a stranger to her family.

"Oh, Papa, it means more than anything. More than anything!" she cried, launching herself into her father's arms and hugging him tightly.

As for Tom, all he could do was smile. Smile at the joy in her voice and on her face, smile and feel nothing but relief and happiness for her because despite the anger that she had felt for the man, he knew that it wasn't in her to carry a grudge. Sybil Crawley was a woman who loved deeply and greatly; she didn't need expensive jewels or a large estate to make her happy—she would much rather have someone's love and friendship than a new frock.

"If you mistreat her, I will personally have you torn to pieces by wild dogs."

Tom had been so lost in the beauty of seeing Sybil happy that he hadn't realized his Lordship was addressing him until the words had been uttered. Yes, it was a threat, and no, the man was not ready to completely "welcome" him into the Crawley family, but it was a step. And from such small steps, revolutions were born.

"I'd expect no less," he answered, nodding his head in mutual understanding. The thought of mistreating Sybil in any way, shape, or form seemed so ridiculous, and yet if he ever did, he personally would _help_ Lord Grantham in tearing himself apart.

"Will you come over for the wedding?" Sybil asked, looking eager as she tucked her arm through his.

Lord Grantham sighed. "We'll see; we'll talk about that later," he mumbled, politely "brushing the question" aside as best he could. Tom couldn't help but frown at the man's answer, but chose not to say anything. Just like he had told Sybil "I'm terribly flattered" was something posh people would say before saying "no", he recognized his Lordship's answer as being of a similar nature. But once again, he would hold his tongue, at least for now. He only hoped his Lordship wouldn't fail his daughter now, after restoring her faith in him. Did the man realize how lucky he was?

"…And there'll be some money," he added after a brief sigh, before adding (with a bit of warning in his voice), "But not much."

Yet despite his words, nothing was going to take away Sybil's joy. In fact she met his words with another hug and an enthusiastic kiss on his cheek, and continued beaming as Lord Grantham held his gaze…and lifted his hand towards him.

Will wonders never cease?

Tom did not hesitate, and took the Earl of Grantham's hand in his own and shook it. He wasn't sure if his Lordship was aware, but the gesture they had exchanged was the first (and he prayed would be one of many) between two men who weren't of different classes or cultures or positions…but between equals.

No more words were spoken then; none needed to be. Tom turned and smiled at Sybil, who was glowing with happiness and pride. She took his hand in hers, her fingers squeezing his in joy and affection, and together they turned and began walking out of the church yard, hand in hand, as two people who were about to embark on a great journey would.

"You were right…" she whispered into his ear as they passed through the gates of the church yard. "You said that they would come around…that all I needed to do was give them time; you never doubted, not even after…" she shook her head, not wanting to dwell on previous arguments. She linked her arm through his and grinned up at him. "When you said 'bet on me' I didn't realize you meant bet on them too."

He smiled at that, and once again lifted their clasped hands to his lips, kissing her knuckles before tucking her arm through his. "I wasn't, though," he confessed. "Betting on them, I mean. I was betting on _you_, actually."

"On me?"

He nodded, smiling down at her. "That's right; because anyone who is blessed to know you, Sybil Crawley, would never want to lose your love."


	173. A Final Letter Home

_QUICK UPDATE! I did post quite recently Chapter 172, which covers the scenes surrounding Lavinia's funeral. PLEASE be sure to read it if you haven't had the chance yet. But right now I'm cruising! Here is a *very* quick update...and I might even be able to get ONE MORE in tonight before I go to bed!_

_My goal was to finish this story by Sept. 22; I'm not sure if that's going to happen as much as I would like for it to, but it will be finished very soon, ***AND*** the first "official" chapter to Love's Continuing Journey will be posted this week as well, and I will be making regular updates to it every Sunday, as an "alternative" to S4 for anyone who is looking for one, or just another DA story to read while watching S4, if you'd like :o) For me personally? I see S4 as its own AU. And LCJ will take a few elements from S3, but overall be my own rewrite of "what it could have been like..." _

_Anyway, thanks again for reading, hope you enjoy this quick little update-it just made sense to me that Tom would send one more letter to his family before he and Sybil leave (and many of the things stated in this letter...as well as the things *not* said, will be brought up when we meet the Bransons in LCJ). Enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Seventy-Three<strong>

Dear Mam,

I'm not sure when you'll receive this; I'm hoping it will somehow, by some miracle, find its way to you before Sybil and I arrive in Dublin, but just in case, I have sent you a telegram detailing (albeit briefly) the information that we will be arriving on Thursday—I can't say for certain when, as I won't be able to purchase tickets for our boat until Wednesday evening or Thursday morning, but…Thursday is the day. I doubt it will be earlier than midafternoon, but…well, the point of the fact is, we're coming, Mam. After all these years…we're coming.

Home. I…I can't believe it, even as I write this, it seems unreal.

…

But it isn't. I'm coming home, Mam. _I'm coming home!_

Oh sweet heaven, I…I honestly feel I could fly if I wanted to! Just…knowing that a week from today…I'll be back in Ireland, seeing all of you…and Sybil will be with me. She's eager to see Ireland, Mam, and I can't wait to show it to her. She's been asking me all sorts of questions, eager to see the places where I walked as a child, favorite places that you and Da took all of us to, but most of all…she's eager to meet all of you. In fact, most of her questions are about you and Frank and the girls.

Thank you, again; thank you for opening your home up to her—that has eased her family's anxieties, considerably. And as you can gather, yes, we've told them…several days ago, in fact. And our announcement was met with some…_concern_, but…but they are slowly coming around to the idea, and accepting it and accepting us, and…well there you have it. After we made our announcement, I handed in my notice and have been staying at the village inn, although recently members of Sybil's family, cousins of hers, kindly invited me to stay as a guest in their home, which is where I am writing you this letter. They see me as family now; those were their words. In fact, his Lordship and I shook hands, and he said to Sybil that she has his blessing, so you see? It's not as bad as perhaps you thought it would be.

Alright, I'm not so naïve as to think it's all "water under the bridge" to use that phrase I've heard you say in the past. But it's a step, Mam, a step in the right direction and both Sybil and I are grateful to her family for their willingness to take that step.

…

…Just as I'm grateful for your willingness.

…

…

Anyway, we have decided that on Wednesday we'll depart Downton, stop on our way to Liverpool to visit a mutual friend of ours, and then proceed to Liverpool where we will be staying the night with a nursing friend of Sybil's. And yes, her friend _is_ married, so once again, we are being "proper". And then Thursday morning, if I haven't had the chance to do so the night before, I'll go and purchase the both of us a pair of tickets, and by evening fall, we'll be in Dublin.

…So there you have it. There really isn't that much more to say. Although I do hope someone can come and greet us at the docks? Frank or one of the cousins? Perhaps Kieran? It would be nice to see a familiar face when we arrive, and both Sybil and I will have three trunks between the both of us, so a little help in carrying those would be appreciated too. And I will send another telegram, before we go, letting you know all the details about when our boat is to arrive.

…

It really feels so strange (a wonderful sort of strange!) that in just a few days…we'll be there.

…

…

I miss you, Mam. I miss all of you so much. There…there was illness; Sybil's mother was very sick, but she's on the mend now, I assure you. But…but it looked very dark for a moment, and…and I thought about you; I couldn't help it, I thought about you and I know that you're not happy with me right now, but…but I don't want us to be enemies, Mam. Please, even if you think us foolish and me the biggest fool in the world, please, let us promise one another to never let an argument be the final words between us? That we strive to find some way to always let the other know how much we mean to each other? Because you do…all of you do; you're my world and I love you so much and while you may doubt me, I have missed you all, terribly missed you. And I truly am glad to be coming home at long last!

…But I love Sybil too. I know you may doubt it, Mam, but she truly is the perfect woman for me. And you will see that when you meet her, when you get to know her. You will see that there is no better woman for your son, though no doubt she could do far better than me. But you will love her, I know you will—just please, give her a chance. She so wants to please you and make you proud and she'd hate me for knowing I'm writing this, but…but please, please help her with anything she needs. She's a good woman, Mam; you'd be proud to call her your daughter-in-law.

…

…

Yes, yes, there is still so much to tell, but not enough paper to contain it all. Besides, won't it be better to hear those stories from my own lips, when I'm sitting across from you in a few days' time? But I assure you, everything is fine; his Lordship is going to send police down upon me, or any soldiers after me once I arrive in Dublin. As I told you, he's given us his blessing…and he meant it. I was there, I saw his eyes…he meant it.

Soon, Mam. Very, very soon. Just a few more days.

I love you all so much. Forgive the shakiness of my pen, I…I'm crying now out of joy, just…just so happy that I'll be seeing all of you again, so soon—_SO SOON!_

I love you, I love you, I can't stop saying it, I love you!

And I truly can't wait to see you all again, and wrap my arms around each and every one of you. Thank you again…just…just for being my family…ah, forgive your blubbering son, because that's what I've become now, but I don't care! All that matters is that we'll be together again, and soon.

All of my love and God bless,

—Tom

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><p><strong>THE BRANSON FAMILY<strong> _(just a quick mention about them)-when I began writing this story, it was just before S2 aired in the US. I didn't know anything about Tom's family (and certainly didn't know until S3 happened that he had an older brother named Kieran). Because I had already been writing this, instead of backtracking and mentioning that he had an older brother, in *THIS* story's universe, Kieran Branson is Tom's *cousin*. And because I had a reader who asked, here is the birth order of Tom and his siblings:_

_Tom Branson (eldest) born 1890_  
><em>Kathleen O'Hara (nee Branson), born 1894...Kathleen is married to a man named Sean, who is Tom's age<em>  
><em>Francis (Frank) Branson, born 1897<em>  
><em>Siobhan Branson, born 1902<em>  
><em>Aileen Branson, born 1904<em>  
><em>Moira Branson, born 1907<em>


	174. Sybil's Diary XXXV

_**AND ANOTHER QUICK UPDATE** Ok, like I said with the last chapter, these past 3 chapters (172 - 174) have all been updated *very* recently, within a 24-hour period, so please, please, *please*, make sure you read them first if you haven't. But I'm so close to the end...seriously, we are ONE CHAPTER AWAY from this story's completion! And then we move onto LCJ and can finally explore the Bransons life together in Ireland, and everything else that happened afterwards, too. BUT UNTIL THEN...here is a diary entry from Sybil. _

_I've written many diary entry chapters for this story, but this one was perhaps one of the most emotional for me, because I knew it was the second-to-last chapter, and it deals with Sybil preparing herself to leave and saying goodbye to everyone she loves, both family members and downstairs staff...and I got so caught up in the emotion that I found myself weeping at times and had to step away from the computer the way she sometimes steps away from her diary. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, and that you find lots of lovely "Sybil moments" here, because one of the things I loved about her character so much, was her willingness to cross boundries to be friends with others. And I hope I managed to capture a little of that here. Thank you for reading, for following, for traveling with me on this S/T journey...we're almost there, my friends..._

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><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Seventy-Four<strong>

April 8, 1919

This is my last diary entry as Lady Sybil Crawley. Because tomorrow, when I leave this place…I'll simply be Sybil. I'm leaving my title behind; in fact the only title I want to keep is the one that states my occupation: Nurse Crawley, and…within a month or two (at most, I hope)…Nurse Branson.

Nurse Sybil Branson. Mrs. Sybil Branson.

…

My hands are shaking as I write those words, but…but I can't contain the joy and anticipation that I feel when writing them! Because it's finally here…this day that I've been thinking of and dreaming about for months, ever since I truly let myself…bet on him…it's here. Tomorrow, Tom and I will leave Downton. We'll see Gwen and Edward and the children, and then go to Liverpool to stay with Susan and James for the night…and on Thursday, we'll leave for Dublin.

…And we'll begin our lives together.

…

…

It seems so strange. I mean, I'm feeling so many things right now! I'm happy—so, so happy that this is happening…but I'm sad, as well; sad to be saying goodbye…and Mary is right; this isn't like when I went to York, I don't know when I'll be seeing my family again. I am hoping they will come for the wedding, but…but even if they do, I don't know when I'll be seeing Mrs. Hughes or Mrs. Patmore or Daisy or Thomas or…or Anna…

…

Oh Anna.

Another emotion I am feeling is guilt. I feel guilty for feeling such joy when her world has come crashing down. When we returned from Lavinia's funeral, there was a strange, black motor there in the drive, and I learned upon entering the house and overhearing Carson talk to Papa, that it was the police! They had come to arrest Bates, apparently accusing him for the death of his wife! I confess, I know very little about what's been going on with Bates and his divorce. Tom told me a little, but not a great deal as his own knowledge was quite limited. And Anna, while I do think of her as a dear friend, I know is much closer to Mary than to me, but even Mary seemed shocked by the news—in fact Papa was the only one who seemed to have any knowledge about the possibility of Bates being a suspect for his wife's murder…if it is murder. Oh Anna, she looked so shell-shocked when I saw her. I had wandered down to the Servant's Hall and found her there, sitting on the staircase with an untouched cup of tea. Everyone was flitting about, trying to go about their work, but I noticed how they all kept glancing at her, unsure of what to say, perhaps thinking horrible things about Bates, I don't know. I wasn't really sure what to say…but I came over to where she sat, knelt beside her, and reached for her hand.

…And that was when I noticed the ring.

Anna and Bates got married! She told me then, as the tears streamed down her face; she told me about the special license Bates was able to get, about their trip to the Ripon registrar's office, about how TOM managed to get a car and drive them there, and then served as one of their witnesses. He didn't tell me anything about that, but Anna then mentioned how she and Bates wanted to keep it secret, at least for the time being. I know that Anna has wanted to marry him for so long, and when everything began to look bad for Bates, she insisted that they marry so that the law couldn't keep her away from him, but that it was best that only a few people know, and that included Tom and Mary, who covered for Anna so that she and Bates could slip away to Ripon.

…She mentioned that…that _my_ insistence that I would marry Tom had inspired her. I…I honestly didn't know what to say to that. She excused herself then…and…and has kept to herself for the most part. Mary insists that her work load be lessened, but every so often I see her in the corridors, going about her tasks as she normally would, but never do I see her smile, or…or even meet anyone else's eyes.

I wish there was something I could do. Papa has spoken with Mr. Murray and they are trying to find a way perhaps to have Bates under "house arrest"; keep him here at Downton, but out of a prison cell until the trial. But…what little I have heard doesn't sound very positive.

I've asked Mary to keep me informed. I…I don't know if there is anything I can do, but I want to try. At the very least, I can pray for both of them. And I know Tom will want to stay informed as well; he was good friends with many members of staff here.

…

It's strange, how…for so long I've wanted to get away from this place—to go and live a life away from Downton. And yet, while yes I still want that, these past few days have opened my eyes to all that I am leaving behind. And it's not the wealth or luxuries or comforts that I'll miss, but the people; from my family…to those who…well, who I consider to be members of my family, even though they are seen as nothing more than employees to my father.

Dear Mrs. Hughes. Oh I will miss her so much! She was always chasing after me when I got away from Nanny; indeed, I was Nanny's worst nightmare. Not an "angel" like Mary or Edith but a "demon child", a little "hellion", as I remember her calling me. I laugh now, but sadly it was true. I couldn't stand the woman and I'm afraid I was a holy terror to her. I did whatever I could to get away, and often found myself running down to the Servant's Hall, hoping to find some place to hide there. And Nanny would curse and mutter against me, but it was Mrs. Hughes who always managed to find me and coax me out of hiding. And it was Mrs. Hughes who would patch me up, if I did the "unthinkable", and climb a tree and rip my stockings. And it was Mrs. Hughes who would defend me if Nanny or even Carson muttered something bad, saying how she thought it was impossible that I could be anything but "the sweetest spirit"—oh poor Mrs. Hughes, I had her fooled I'm afraid. Although I will admit, I am sorry for my ill behavior to Nanny, although no doubt it is too little, too late, and I hope that wherever Nanny is now, she will look down from heaven and forgive me for the headaches I caused.

But yes, dear Mrs. Hughes. I remember after one of my scrapes in the garden, her picking me up and setting me on her knee, wiping the dirt and tears from my face, while brushing my hair back with her fingers…and telling me fairytales about the Highlands. I loved those stories…and I remember falling asleep in her arms many times when I was a child.

Oh Mrs. Hughes…I must write to her, I must write to all of them, but today…I came down to the Servant's Hall, wanting to ask Daisy or Mrs. Patmore for some recipes to take with me to Ireland…and I saw her, standing off to the side with Mrs. Hughes and crying. I didn't know what had upset her so, until I heard her say my name!

…

…

She said…

…

She said, _"I understand the pain her Ladyship must be feeling…because I feel like I'm losing a daughter too…"_

…

…

…

Oh gracious, I've caused the ink to run.

…

I wanted to go and embrace her and tell her how much I would miss her too, but Mrs. Patmore ushered her away just when Carson entered, looking aghast and wondering what on earth was the matter. They didn't say, probably because they don't want him to mutter anymore curses at Tom.

I know that Carson is angry with Tom. He holds everything about his job so dear, including the values that go hand in hand with it, and in his eyes, Tom broke every rule by not only falling in love with me, but having the "audacity" to propose marriage to me. And I'm sure I'm not highly regarded in his favor right now, because I said "yes", though no doubt in Carson's mind, "I don't know any better". Still…I wonder if he will miss me at all? Or if he will be glad that I am gone? I always found him so formidable…and yet at the same time, despite that gruff exterior, I know he can be very loyal and kind, and of course he adores Mary.

I know Papa is glad that he is staying and not leaving with Mary and Sir Richard, although I know that Mary is disappointed…and I think Carson regrets saying no to her as well.

Yes…yes, despite what Carson may think of both Tom and me, I will miss him too. Although I'm not sure he would appreciate a letter from me if I send him one…still, I might write to him every so often.

I did manage to get those recipes I had originally come to the Servant's Hall to retrieve. Daisy…sweet Daisy, she wrote down each and every one on separate sheets of paper, folded them prettily and placed them in a box, and added a few more that she thought would be some "easier" dishes for me to make, that required only a few ingredients.

She and I are the same age. I…I had never asked, but I had always suspected. It seemed rude to ask, but…but did ask this evening, when she gave me the box. I asked if she was twenty-two as well, and she blushed and nodded, and then I thanked her. I thanked her for always treating me kindly, and as an equal in the kitchens when having my cooking lessons. How easy it could have been for her to lord over me if she wanted to; how easy it could have been for her to be patronizing and tease me, but she never did. She was always patient, always willing to help, and if I made a mistake, she never rolled her eyes or muttered a cross word. She just showed me how to do it correctly…and I always thought she seemed so…so "sage-like" in her wisdom, which I think truly shocked her, because naturally she's used to following Mrs. Patmore's every command. But it's true; I feel I've made a dear friend with Daisy, and…and I hope she feels the same. William was lucky to have such a sweet girl be his wife…

…

While Daisy was patient with me, Mrs. Patmore…well, in many ways she treated me like an equal too. She would tease, she would groan, she would roll her eyes…but I never felt it was done to be hurtful or anything like that. Rather…I felt like I was one of her staff! And…despite the way she could always make the other kitchen maids jump with her ferocious shouts, I did appreciate that she wasn't trying to treat me any differently than Daisy or one of the other kitchen maids. Her brashness hardened me, and it was good when I had to stand up to the likes of Jane Hamley or endure one of Nurse Templeton's lectures. And I am thankful for her lessons, because I did make a promise to Tom's mother that he would not starve, and…well, I want to prove to her that I can manage my own house, and that I can look after the both of us, and while she was a hard taskmaster, Mrs. Patmore has helped me grow and find that hidden potential within me to take care of myself, and those I love. And if I can withstand Mrs. Patmore, then…well, I only pray that Mrs. Branson won't be a great deal different.

I will miss her too. When I needed patching up from Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Patmore would make me a cup of hot chocolate and sometimes sneak me an extra biscuit. And I wonder if she was aware of those "secret picnics" that Mary, Edith, and I would sometimes have in our rooms, as children? Because when we would sneak into the kitchens to gather supplies, it did seem terribly suspicious that there would be these tea cakes just sitting around…

…

I remember those picnics so fondly. It was before Mary and Edith were always going at each other's throats. When we were younger, they got along very well; I don't know what happened to cause such rifts between them.

…Actually, I do know, and his name was Patrick. But I'll not speak ill of my cousin, God rest his soul. Oh, but…but why didn't I think of this earlier? Oh I should have insisted that the three of us have one of those "special picnics" again! I know we're not children, but it would have been fun! Now with my knowledge of the kitchen, I know where to find all the best pastries when supper has been cleared away. And I could make us tea, and then we could sneak away to my room, and sit on the floor, huddled around a bed sheet tied to the end of my bedposts like a Middle Eastern tent, and just…laugh and talk until exhaustion claims us.

…

…

That was how I would have loved to have spent my last night at Downton. Oh why, why didn't I think about this earlier?

…Perhaps…perhaps when I come back we can do that? Before Mary wedding? If she'll have me, of course. And Tom. I'll not come if Tom isn't invited too.

…

Dinner was quiet tonight. Isobel and Matthew were invited to join us, but politely declined. I don't know if Papa is aware that Tom is staying with them right now or not. Nothing further has been said really, since Lavinia's funeral. Papa keeps busy in his study, and understandably, since he's trying to help Bates. But…but we haven't really spoken, since Monday. He's said he's given us his blessing, but…but I wonder if he's like Mary in that sense? She says she'll never deny me, that she loves me and I'll always be her sister, but she's also admitted that she can't support what Tom and I are doing. And…and I wonder if Papa is doing the same? Saying that we have his blessing, but really only saying it to keep peace, but not completely supporting us or our decision. I should have asked him for clarity, but…but I'm too much of a coward. I want to believe that he's simply avoiding me because it's his way of dealing with his sadness about my leaving. I do, as Papa said, "want to part friends"…and I don't want to say something that could upset that.

…

Mama was quiet at dinner too. Although it was near impossible for anyone else to speak, since the few times we did have conversation, it was Granny who dominated it. Oh Granny…she's ordered me to send her every detail that I can about Dublin; she wants to know everything, whatever that means. I'll not say anything to embarrass Tom or his family, but I will indulge her, certainly, in writing to her and telling her all the things she no doubt will find boring, such as my search to find a nursing position.

But as for Mama, she's still recovering, and Dr. Clarkson, who continues to come by every day, still thinks it's best that she stay in bed as much as possible. But she was at dinner tonight (unlike last night), and she did smile at me…and reach for my hand under the table. We were seated next to one another, and every so often, I would feel her hand search for mine, and squeeze it.

…

…

We haven't really had the chance to talk much. She's often resting, and I have been busy as well, packing and preparing myself for our journey. But I'm hoping that perhaps tomorrow…before I go, I can take some time to be with her, just the two of us.

…

I need her to know that I did overhear her that night. I need her to know that I'm so thankful for her what she said, and how much it means to me that…that she sees _who_ I really am. If I have to "invade her room" at breakfast, so be it. But I need to talk to her; desperately.

And I want to spend a moment with Mary and Edith as well. Just…take a stroll through the gardens together, or something. Sir Richard has gone back to London, so I won't have to worry about him distracting Mary, though I think she would welcome the distraction. She has been very quiet since poor Lavinia's death…and even more so since the funeral. I…I don't know what happened between her and Matthew; I know that they talked, but I don't know what about. Yet since then, Matthew has avoided Downton, and Mary has kept close to Sir Richard. Oh I wish I could talk to her, or rather, I wish she would talk to me! But…is there enough time? I can only hope that perhaps in our letters, which she has promised she will write, that…that maybe she will open up to me and share what's truly on her mind and in her heart.

Oh Lord, I pray that they will be good to each other, Mary and Edith. I hated being referee to their squabbles, and right now, they need one another. They both need to trust each other, and remember that we're sisters, we love each other! Edith has come so far since before the War; she's a stronger person now, will speak her mind more often, and stand up for herself others around her. She's by no means perfect, but neither is she a "shrinking violet" or "wallflower". But she does need someone to fight in her corner; I know Mama and Papa love her dearly, yet they do seem to neglect her at times. And…and I'm hoping that perhaps my absence will help remedy that.

But I will write to them both, of course, perhaps more than anybody else here. I love my sisters, and I will miss them terribly. And…and I hope, I hope so much that it hurts, that they will be there at my wedding—_both_ of them. I know Mary doesn't approve, but I am hoping she will set aside her feelings and come. I need my sisters; I can't imagine a day when I won't need them in some way, even if we can't be physically together—at least in spirit, I need them.

…

…

My room looks so different now. I'm sitting here at my desk, looking around and taking notice of all the changes. To anybody else, I doubt those changes are recognizable. There are still plenty of books on the shelf, still plenty of gowns hanging in the closet, and my jewelry box will remain with a good number of its pieces. But there are changes…

Mainly…I look around my room and I see it not as my room anymore. This is my past, my childhood. After tonight, my room will no longer be my room but a guest room in my mind. After tonight, my room will not only be my own, but Tom's as well. That will be my next room—a bed that he and I will share…in a home that he and I will live in as husband and wife. Mr. and Mrs. Branson.

After tonight…

…

…

Thomas helped carry my trunks downstairs. They're waiting by the door. Pratt will drive us to Gwen's; Papa insisted. I hope Tom won't mind, I haven't had the chance to tell him yet, but…well, we'll cross that bridge tomorrow. But Thomas helped carry my things, and I thanked him, worried that perhaps they were too heavy, but he told me they weren't. I began mumbling about how I'm so worried that I have over packed, that I don't want anyone in my new home to think I have "certain airs" about myself, and Thomas…he simply laughed. I didn't understand what was so funny, and he proceeded to tell me how he remembered the time I stormed into Dr. Clarkson's office to come to his defense as well as to show support for Lt. Courtney…and that even though I was a "lowly nurse", compared to Dr. Clarkson's position as both doctor and major, I walked in there demanding that my voice be heard, not "giving a fig", he said, about what other people thought.

…

His words did make me smile. And then Thomas leaned close and said, _"don't forget who you are, Nurse Crawley; you've never let anyone bully you before—don't let your in-laws get away with it, either."_

…

I can't stop laughing now! Oh Thomas…I hated that it took a war for the two of us to become friends, but even so, I am glad that we are. And while I know Tom isn't as fond of him, I think the two of them would find a great deal more in common than they think.

…

…

Yes…yes I am going to miss this place. But even so, I am still glad—_very_ glad, that I am going. As I told Tom, all those weeks ago, "I'm ready to travel". And I am. And Tom is my ticket, to more than just a new life away from here, but…my ticket to happiness. Indeed, _he_ is what makes me happy. And I will not give him up.

It's very late. And I've written so much one would think my hand would hurt. But it doesn't, actually. In fact, I think I could keep writing if I wished, but I will stop for now. There is still so much I want to do before I go, so many people I want to speak with, although I hate the thought of saying goodbye. But I must remind myself that it isn't goodbye, just…just farewell for now. Because somehow, someway, Tom and I will return to see all those we dearly love. Perhaps when Bates is released? Oh yes, please God, let it be for that at least.

…

One more night. One more night at Downton...one more night in this room, in that bed, one more night as _Lady_ Sybil Patricia Crawley.

…One more night where I will dream about the handsome Irish chauffeur, my best friend, my true equal, my "forbidden" love. One more night…and when I wake up, my dream will be real.


	175. Ready to Travel

_This is it, friends. The end of a journey, in many respects. But also the stepping stone to another, as now we'll move to Love's Continuing Journey, and follow the lives of Tom and Sybil as they begin to make a life for themselves in Ireland. There are so many people to thank, so many people who have followed and read this story, some of you from the beginning when I started posting in January of 2012, to those of you who have discovered it recently, to those who may stumble across it and start reading it tomorrow or weeks/months from now. Thank you so much for your love and support; I have enjoyed every minute in writing this story, and it's such a pleasure to know that so many enjoy it. I hope you like this last chapter and it does our characters justice. Again, thank you. **Dedicated to ALL OF YOU**, because you're just as much a part of this story as Tom and Sybil. VIVA LA BRANSONS!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One-Hundred and Seventy-Five<strong>

Four times.

That was how many times he had made this journey, and the last time had been five years ago.

Now here he was again, standing on the deck of a boat, as it chugged over waves, the surf pounding against its side, the wind blowing in his face as gulls cried overhead…

He closed his eyes and breathed in the ocean air, his hands gripping the railing of the boat as he allowed his senses to take in everything around him: crewmen grunting, engines roaring, waves splashing, footsteps at various speeds moving up and down the deck, children playing close by and laughing…

One laugh stood out from the others. It was childlike in its merriment and lightness, but it did not belong to a child.

A smile curled at the corners of his mouth before he opened his eyes to gaze at her beautiful profile. She was giggling as spray from the sea hit her face. He didn't say anything, he just admired her, his heart swelling as he watched her wipe her face with a gloved hand, pushing the damp tendrils of hair away while the other hand held fast to her hat, to keep it from blowing out sea. It was odd, in some ways, but…she truly looked like she was in her element there, on the deck of the ferry that was carrying them and a large number of passengers from Liverpool.

She must have felt his eyes upon her, because she turned to look at him, a beautiful blush coloring her cheeks as she smiled back, pushing away a dark strand of hair that kept trying to blow across her eyes.

It seemed so unreal…

Was it only yesterday that they were still in Downton? Only this morning that they were still in England? Only a week ago that they had made their love and intentions known to the world? After waiting for so long, waiting for her answer, waiting for their opportunity, waiting for this moment…here they were at last. On a ferry…

Sailing them home.

* * *

><p><em>Yesterday…<em>

He was awake before the sun had even risen.

The bed he slept on in Crawley House was certainly the most comfortable he had ever had the good fortune to sleep in. Yesterday he had surprised both himself and his hosts, when he had slept till nearly half-past ten in the morning (he had never slept in so late) and quickly made his apologies to them when he managed to come downstairs and find both Mrs. Crawley and her son sitting in the parlor with the newspaper, their breakfast long finished. Mrs. Crawley laughed and told him there was nothing to apologize for. Matthew, on the other hand, while giving Tom a polite smile, remained quiet and resumed reading his paper. There was still a sad, somber air about the house…and no doubt it would remain for quite some time.

Yet even the comforting allure of his new bed could keep him in it. Not on this day. He swung his legs over and walked to the window, gazing out as a thin gold line began to peak over the horizon.

Today was the day.

In a few hours, he would be washed, dressed, have a full belly thanks to Mrs. Crawley's cook, and then Mr. Pratt would be there to load his meager belongings onto the back of his Lordship's car, and for the first time ever, he would be riding in the back like one of the posh passengers he always drove about, to pick up Sybil from Downton.

…And then they would be off. Just like that.

Today was the day; the beginning of their lives…_together_.

* * *

><p>It was a rare morning at Downton Abbey; for the first time since the War had come to an end, and the house had returned to being a house once more, were the entire Crawley family gathered for breakfast. Sybil was glad for this opportunity, although poor Carson looked positively unsure about what to do, and kept glancing at the serving dishes, as if worrying they would run out of food.<p>

Sybil glanced around the table, taking note of how everyone was eating in relative silence, reminding her of the unusually quiet dinner they had the night before. Only this time, her grandmother wasn't there to fill in the silent gaps with her tactless curiosity.

Mary's eyes were glued to her plate, while Edith would occasionally glance up and meet Sybil's gaze, offer a small, and rather sad looking smile, before lowering her eyes back to her plate and mimicking Mary. Her father had the excuse of his newspaper, and just as he had every day since her childhood, he read it as if it were just another Wednesday morning. Perhaps by losing himself in some semblance of "how things used to be", he could in his own way pretend that today was not the day his youngest daughter would be leaving to go and marry one of the former servants.

Her mother didn't touch her food. She had spread some jam on her toast, but then left it on her plate, and seemed to be lost in deep concentration, staring down at the now cold toast as if trying to remember how it come to be there at all.

It was excruciating. Sybil found it to be even worse and more awkward than the previous evening. Oh why couldn't they be happy for her? After her father had given both Tom and her his blessing, she had naively thought that would be the end of the matter, that now he (and the family) would be accepting and supportive, at least to a point. But it seemed that by "giving them his blessing", it simply meant that he would not vocalize any misgivings or protests that he had. Silent protests, on the other hand…

A sound came from her right, and Sybil looked over at her mother, who had closed her eyes and was taking a deep breath, as if gathering her strength. Both Edith and Mary took immediate notice, and asked in concerned voices if she was alright, thus causing their father to lower his newspaper and see what was going on. "Perhaps you should go back to bed?"

But Cora shook her head. "No, no, I'm fine," she declared, putting on a smile for all of them, and then looking over at Sybil. "I'll not take my breakfast in my room; not this day."

Sybil couldn't help but smile a little at that, especially as her mother moved her hand to cover her own. They still hadn't had a chance to talk intimately together, but she was grateful her mother had come downstairs to be with all of them, and she quickly entwined her fingers with her mother's and squeezed her hand, hoping her mother would be able to understand her gratitude for so many things in the simple gesture.

Cora smiled and returned the squeeze. "Now…you did pack enough warm clothes? Including undergarments?" she asked, her eyes filled with motherly concern.

"Cora!" Robert gasped, paling at first, before turning beet red. Even Mary and Edith looked shocked by their mother's question; although Sybil could see that they were also trying to stifle their bubbling laughter.

"I only ask because I have heard that Irish winters can be a great deal harsher than English ones—"

"Yes, Mama," Sybil reassured, blushing deeply in embarrassment, but also loving her mother for caring enough to ask such a "shocking" question right then and there, because she was concerned for her child's wellbeing and nothing else. "But do keep in mind it is spring now, and in two months it will be summer—"

"But still, you should take as much warm clothing as you can," her mother instructed, turning her head then and glancing towards the door that would lead out into the hall. She frowned and looked back at her daughter. "Surely two trunks won't be enough—"

"Sybil is being very practical, Mama," Mary defended from her teacup. Her words earned what sounded like a snort from their father, but he had resumed reading his newspaper, or rather as Sybil suspected, "hiding" behind it. "Just as she had been, when she packed for York," Mary went on, ignoring their father.

She was grateful for her sister's defense, although she hid her own blushing face behind her teacup, wondering if Mary would have spoken up if she was aware that it was at York that Tom first proposed, and then on the day they had received the good news from _The Irish Republic_, she had insisted they return and rewrite history for themselves?

"Two trunks will be ample, Mama," Sybil reassured, turning her face and smiling at her mother, though Cora still did not look so convinced. No, it would be hard for her—for all of them, really, to imagine going from one life to another. But she had done it when she went to York; and she was determined to do it again and prove to everyone, both Tom's family and her own, that this truly was the right decision.

Breakfast continued in its rather awkward state; her father eventually rose from the table and made mention about how he needed to go to the library to go over some papers that Murray had sent him in regards to Bates. Sybil reached out and touched his arm, to which he gave her a smile, patted her hand, and then turned to leave. Despite what he had said to her at Lavinia's funeral, they still hadn't managed to talk about whether or not the family would be coming for the wedding.

"It's a shame Granny couldn't come this morning…" Edith murmured after their father had left.

Sybil had been thinking the same thing; however she put on a smile and shook her head as if her grandmother's absence didn't matter. "We said our goodbyes last night."

"She'll want to hear all about your voyage," her mother murmured from her side, reaching over and taking her hand once more. "We all will."

"I don't suppose the Lawsons have a telephone?" Mary inquired. It was a known fact that both she and Tom would be staying with her friend Susan in Liverpool for the night, before taking a ferry to Dublin the next day.

"I don't know, in all honesty," Sybil sighed. "But if she does, I will ring, I promise."

"And you must send us a telegram when you reach Dublin," her mother ordered, taking several deep breaths, her voice quivering with growing emotion. "First thing; promise me you will do that as soon as you step off the boat!"

Sybil nodded her head, not sure she would be able to trust her own voice in this moment.

Tomorrow…

Tomorrow night she would be in Ireland, with Tom. Tomorrow night, they would be in their new home…

A knock on the door just behind the Crawley women caused them all to lift their eyes and see the Downton housekeeper standing there, her focus entirely on Sybil. "Mr. Pratt has returned," she softly explained. Which meant Tom had arrived.

_It's time…_

Cora's hold on her daughter's hand did not lessen at all. If anything, it grew stronger. "Will you show him in, Mrs. Hughes?"

All three Crawley daughters stared at their mother in surprise, although none looked as shocked as Carson, who was standing off by the sideboard where the warming dishes lay. His jaw had quite literally dropped, and his eyes looked like they could bulge out of his skull at any second. And although she had not specified to whose presence she requested, everyone knew to whom the Countess of Grantham was asking for.

Mrs. Hughes glanced at the Downton butler, before turning her gaze back to Cora. "You…you wish to have me show Mr. Branson…to the dining room, milady?"

Cora nodded, not bothered in the slightest by the shocked expressions all around her.

"Yes," she confirmed with a strong, solid nod. "I have a few questions of my own for the man who will be my son-in-law."

A gasp escaped Sybil's lips, and she turned and looked across the table at her sisters. Edith met her gaze and returned Sybil's hopeful smile, while Mary kept her head down, concentrating perhaps a little too much on her breakfast.

"Very good, milady," Mrs. Hughes murmured, turning her eyes to look at Carson, whose jaw was clamped tightly shut. The butler gave a very stiff nod, and then turned to go and see to the task at hand, of bringing the former chauffeur into the Downton dining room. After all…despite his personal feelings on the matter, he still had a job to do.

* * *

><p>Surprises never seemed to cease.<p>

Mrs. Crawley had informed him the previous evening, just before he had gone to bed, that arrangements had been made by his Lordship to have Pratt drive both Sybil and himself to the Warrens, rather than to have them take the bus, which was originally what they had planned to do. Some would see the gesture as kind and thoughtful, but Tom couldn't help but feel that it was his Lordship's way of trying to "remind" him that he couldn't provide Sybil with certain comforts. But bless Mrs. Crawley, because she put everything into perspective, murmuring how "pleasant that would be for both him and Sybil, to have the car to themselves (in a manner of speaking), and enjoy a country drive together." It would be even more pleasant if they truly _did_ have the car to themselves, minus Pratt, but Tom kept his thoughts to himself, put on a smile and thanked Mrs. Crawley for the message, as well as for her and Matthew's kindness and hospitality.

"Do write to us, will you? Both you and Sybil?" she asked, while he loaded his trunk to the back of the Renault (he insisted on doing that by himself, at least).

"We will," Tom promised, and before extending his hand to the woman to shake in gratitude. Mrs. Crawley waved his hand aside, and in a rather bold move, stepped forward and gave him a hearty hug of her own. Tom returned the embrace, smiling and feeling glad that Sybil truly would have some family "rooting for her" as she made this journey with him into marriage.

Mrs. Crawley, or "Cousin Isobel" as she insisted, wished she could go up to the big house with him, but the nursing staff was short at the hospital due to all the recent cases of Spanish Flu, and so she asked him to pass on her farewell wishes to Sybil, before embracing him one last time, and wishing the both of them a safe journey. Tom thanked her again, and then asked that she pass on his gratitude to Matthew…who had journeyed back to London the other day with Mr. Swire, and had decided to take the train to Manchester and spend some time there, rather than return to Downton right away. The poor man was running away from his grief, or so it seemed. Tom truly did wish that the future earl would find peace.

The drive to the big house had never felt so long to him before. Had it always been like this when he had driven back and forth from Downton to Crawley House? There was a part of him that wanted to push Pratt aside and take the wheel, but there was another part of him that, despite his eagerness to see Sybil again and for the both of them to be on their way at long last, that was extremely nervous about this return trip to Downton, his first really, since he had officially handed in his notice.

He wasn't sure what to expect when the car pulled up the all too familiar drive. He was grateful there was no "fanfare of servants", all lined up with the family to see Sybil off. Yet at the same time, he was surprised to see that there truly was…no one…waiting outside.

Save one person.

"Anna," Tom breathed as he climbed out the car, not waiting for Pratt to come around and open the door for him (as he lived and breathed, he would never have anyone open the door for him). The head housemaid had just emerged from the door as the car came to a stop, her hands folded together in front of her as she took several tentative steps down towards the car.

She looked so tired. Tom's heart broke at the sight of his friend, the sadness and worry quite visible in her eyes. He had learned the news about Bates' arrest Monday evening, when Mrs. Crawley received a telephone call from the big house. He was very glad now that he had been able to help his friends in getting them to Ripon for their wedding, however he couldn't imagine the pain Anna was going through—to go from celebrating the happiest moment of your life to having the person you love most snatched away, without any understanding of what was happening to them. And upon seeing Tom, the pain and stress and worry that Anna had been forced to deal with ever since her husband was arrested came pouring out in the form of weary sobs.

Tom caught her and she collapsed against him, crying and whimpering incoherently, and he simply held her, wishing he could somehow make things better. It wasn't right and it wasn't fair; his friends had waited for so long, had gone through so much to finally share in the joy of marriage…

No, he could not imagine the pain she was feeling. And he selfishly prayed he never would.

"Anna," he murmured, glancing up at the doorway and seeing Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes standing there, looking down at them. The housekeeper looked sympathetic, while the butler was scowling. He ignored them and focused again on his friend who was sniffling and regaining what composure she could. "Anna," he murmured again. "I…I don't know how, yet, but…but if there is anything I can do—"

"Oh Mr. Branson," she shook her head, forcing a smile, though it was clearly a sad one. "You've done a great deal for us…and…and thank you, again, for taking us to Ripon and being our witness," she told him, and despite the tears in her eyes and the anguish in her voice, he could see the sincere gratitude on her face as she spoke.

He gave a small smile in return, though it too was full of sadness and concern. "Keep us informed, please?" he asked her, his hands taking hers and squeezing them. "Both Sybil and I will want to know everything that's happening, and…and even though I'll be in Dublin, I'll do some research, see what I can learn about such laws—"

"Oh Tom," Anna whispered, silencing him as she spoke his name. In all their years they had been working together, he had never heard the head housemaid call him by his name.

She reached up and touched his cheek with her hand, a gesture meant to show gratitude and affection. Indeed, he would miss her; he would miss so many of them. They had become his second family, and Anna in many ways had become a sister to him.

Mr. Carson cleared his throat then and Anna quickly lowered her hand and stepped away. Tom glanced up at butler and forced a small smile, which was once again met with a dark scowl. "We'll write as soon as we arrive in Dublin," he promised her, turning his attentions back to Anna. "And I mean it; I want to help, so please do not hesitate to ask me of anything."

"Thank you," she whispered, nodding her head. "And…and a safe journey to you and Lady Sybil." She took his hand in hers and gave it one more squeeze, before turning and rushing back up the steps, moving quickly past Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, hurrying back to whatever chore she was supposed to be doing. Had she been anyone else, no doubt she would be reprimanded for speaking with him (let alone for hugging him), but everyone loved Anna, and right now, he knew she would be forgiven for her "less than professional" actions.

"Mr. Branson?"

He glanced up at Mrs. Hughes who was offering him a kind smile, despite the scowling butler to her right.

"Her Ladyship would like to see you," she informed him. "In the dining room."

Tom swallowed the nervous lump in his throat and gave a nod of understanding. He looked down at himself and quickly ran his hands across his suit coat. This was different, compared to the last time he had been in the presence of her Ladyship. Last time he had marched into the Downton drawing room, unannounced, and declared with Sybil by his side that they were in love and intending to get married. Last time he didn't care what they thought of his appearance, or at least he didn't care as much. But this was different. Now, he was more or less being "summoned" by his future mother-in-law, and he cared very much that he looked smart and worthy, though he knew Sybil would chide him for thinking such things.

As he passed Mr. Carson he couldn't help but glance out of the side of his eyes at the Downton butler, who stiffened as he approached. Did he remember the words spoken at their last exchange? Tom certainly did. And no, he _still_ felt no shame for falling in love with Sybil Crawley and asking her to be his wife.

"This way," Mr. Carson growled as soon as Tom entered the house. Despite his obvious dislike, the butler was determined to do his duty. Tom glanced at Mrs. Hughes, who gave him a small smile, before glancing at Mr. Carson and rolling her eyes. Indeed, he would miss this woman very much. If they ever met, he had a feeling that his mother and the Downton housekeeper would become fast friends.

* * *

><p>The "interrogation" had been brief. As soon as Tom entered the dining room, Sybil leapt to her feet before her mother or sisters, and not caring what they thought, quickly went to his side and grasped his hands, leaning up on her toes and brushing her lips against his cheek. He smiled at her and she grinned as she saw his cheeks flush slightly, but she could also tell he was nervous and squeezed his hand to reassure him that there was nothing to worry about.<p>

…At least that was true with her mother.

The conversation had been brief, her mother simply wanted to learn a little more about his mother and his family, since she would be staying with them until they were married. Even though Tom was offered a place to sit, he stood the whole time, his hands clasped firmly behind his back, his weight shifting somewhat nervously back and forth as he described his mother's house, and gave her mother and sisters a brief "history and introduction" to the Branson family.

His mother's name was Margaret, and she was a widow. His father had passed away in 1910. He was the eldest of six, with one brother and four sisters, the oldest one married. He had several aunts and uncles that lived nearby, and a great many cousins whose names Sybil realized she would have to ask him to repeat later. His mother's house was a very respectable place, quite cozy from the sound of it. She was very proud of her home, kept it clean and tidy, and as he spoke, Sybil also felt great pride in both Tom and his family. She smiled and looked back at her mother, who was wearing a polite smile, though she could tell that there was some concern in her mother's blue eyes. Edith looked the same, putting on a polite smile although it was clear she was struggling with the comprehension that a family of Tom's size could live in a house that only had three bedrooms. Indeed, even Sybil caught herself imagining that, and of course quickly realizing that his sisters no doubt shared a room, and she found herself wondering if she would be sharing a room with them when she stayed. Not that she minded, after all she had shared a room with Susan while going to school, and it would only be for a few weeks…then she and Tom would be married and have a home of their own. And like Mrs. Branson, she too would take pride in that place.

Mary was the only one who wasn't smiling. However, Sybil couldn't be mad at her because at least the frown she wore was genuine and not a mask to hide what she was really thinking. And while Edith and their mother kept their eyes on Tom, Mary kept looking at her, as if assessing whether or not she was capable of living in a place that was so different from Downton.

"Beggin' your pardon, your Ladyship," Carson interrupted. "But his Lordship would like to speak with Mr. Branson before he and Lady Sybil depart."

Sybil's smile vanished and she felt her back stiffen at the butler's words. Her eyes flew to her mother, who looked a bit surprised at the announcement herself, however she continued to wear her kind smile, before stepping forward and offering a hand for Tom to shake. "Well...you must send us a telegram as soon as you arrive in Dublin," Cora insisted, to which Tom, after getting over the initial surprise of the offered hand, quickly promised that they would.

Sybil bit her lip and watched as he followed Carson out of the dining room, turning and giving her a fleeting smile that seemed to say _"it's going to be fine",_ before disappearing in the direction of the library.

Gracious, what on earth did her father want this time? And why had he summoned Tom and not the both of them? She was tempted to go and follow and demand that whatever he had to say to her fiancée, he could say to her as well, but Mary's arm wrapped around her shoulders and was starting to lead her away, down the opposite end of the hall towards the front doors where Pratt was already going about the business of loading her trunks to the back of the car.

"I know you'll be very busy settling in over there," Mary murmured, her hands going to Sybil's shoulders and turning her to face her straight on. "But you must promise to write to us, and write to us often."

Sybil's heart swelled with emotion as she looked into her sister's dark eyes. "Of course," she answered, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around her sister. She then turned and smiled at Edith, holding her arm out and welcoming her other sister into the embrace, and for the first time in years, all three Crawley sisters hugged one another tightly. "We need to do this more often," Sybil giggled, despite the tears that were streaming down her face. Both Mary and Edith joined in her laughter, as well as in her tears, and hugged their baby sister even tighter.

"First one to leave the nest…"

Sybil looked up and met her mother's eyes, which were also glistening with tears, but there was also a smile on her face, one that didn't look forced or polite or even sad, despite the occasion.

Pride. Motherly pride.

"I spoke those words to you before you left for York…" she murmured, stepping forward and without hesitating, enfolding her youngest daughter in a fierce hug. "My beauty, my baby…" she murmured into Sybil's hair, and Sybil clutched her mother even tighter. She would miss her…more than she ever realized.

"I'm going to be fine, Mama," she whispered, trying to reassure her mother and ease any worries that she still might have. "Truly…I will be."

"I know, I know," Cora gasped between tears, nodding her head as she spoke. "I know you will, my brave beauty," she whispered. "And I know that…that…_Tom_…" she attempted for the first time, "Will take good care of you, too."

Yes he would, and it made Sybil's heart soar to hear her mother's faith in the man she would soon marry. "We'll take care of each other," she murmured.

Cora laughed and nodded her head, lifting her face away to wipe at her cheeks. "Yes, yes, I believe you will."

* * *

><p>Nearly seven years ago, Mr. Carson had brought him into this very room, this beautiful library which had struck Tom dumb in its beauty. Who knew that what he was walking into? Who knew that he was not only greeting his employer, but the man who would one day be his father-in-law? Indeed, it seemed his Lordship was thinking the same thing, because as he turned in his chair at the sound of Tom's entrance, he looked at him with hard eyes, before slowly rising to his feet, assessing him briefly, before finally murmuring, "If I had known that the man who had entered this room all those years ago to serve as chauffeur would be entering it now as my…" he paused, clearly struggling with saying the words. Tom pursed his lips, but didn't say anything. Today was not a day for debates or arguments. "Well," his Lordship coughed. "…I wouldn't have believed it, is what I am trying to say."<p>

"Nor I," Tom truthfully answered, holding his Lordship's gaze with a steady one of his own.

The two men looked at one another for a long moment like enemies standing on opposite ends of a trench in the midst of a ceasefire. At least that was what it felt like to Tom.

Lord Grantham finally lowered his eyes to the desk in front of him and proceeded to pick up a small slip of paper, gazed upon it for a moment, before folding it and extending it to Tom.

His brow furrowed as he stared at the folded slip of paper, and hesitated in taking it.

His Lordship sighed. "Just take it, please."

Tom frowned. "What is it, milord?"

Again, his Lordship sighed and began to rub the bridge of his nose. "It's a cheque for you and Sybil. I did say I would give you some money, and so that is what this is, now take it."

Tom's frown deepened, and instead of stepping forward to accept the cheque, he took a step backwards. "You do realize that the reason I want to marry Sybil has nothing to do with money? In fact, your Lordship, I would prefer—"

"This isn't about what _you_ would 'prefer' or 'not prefer'," the earl growled in irritation. "I promised that there would be 'some money' and so here it is, now take it!"

"You also gave us your blessing, though I can't help but wonder if you're having second thoughts on that front," Tom muttered, before cursing himself for letting his stubborn pride speak. He didn't want to have an argument, and yet his mouth seemed determined…

Lord Grantham stiffened at his words, and Tom saw a long list of emotions dance across the man's face, all of them dark and negative. However, his Lordship took a deep breath, lifted his chin, and folded his hands behind his back, before meeting Tom's gaze with a hard one of his own.

"I am not offering this money as a means to insult you or your 'working class pride'," he explained, to which Tom was just barely able to keep himself from snorting in disagreement. "Nor…nor do I doubt your reasons for wanting to marry my daughter…"

Tom looked at Lord Grantham with some surprise. Did he mean that?

"Yes, you made your opinions and intentions quite clear that day in the Grantham Arms," he muttered, looking a little embarrassed at the memory. "And…and while I may not care for the thought of my daughter going so far away and living in another land…" he paused again, and Tom remained silent, his own hands clasped tightly behind his back as listened. He supposed his Lordship's words were better and less insulting than insinuating that he didn't care for the idea of his daughter marrying an Irishman, a Catholic, someone to whom Lord Grantham saw as his "inferior". "Just…" Lord Grantham sighed and once again, extended the cheque towards Tom. "Just…please, humor me," he sighed again. "I'll agree, Sybil would not be marrying you and choosing to leave this life behind if she didn't want to, however that being said…I am her father and she is my youngest. And I do worry about her, as any decent parent should. So…please…" he waved the cheque. "Put yourself in my shoes, Branson; what father, no matter his station, wouldn't want to see his children provided for?"

He sighed. It was tempting to say, "I wouldn't know, since my father cared more about sulking over lost dreams and drowning his pain in liquor," but that wouldn't be helpful to anyone, least of all to Sybil. Here they were, standing on the precipice, almost there, almost away from Downton…

"That's Sybil's money," he finally answered, taking the cheque out of Lord Grantham's hands. "Hers to use and hers alone; I'll not touch it," he stated quite firmly, before adding after a pause, "no offense."

Lord Grantham straightened himself, and Tom swore he saw what looked like a tiny smile of relief curl at the corners of the man's mouth. "None taken," he murmured. "And…spend it as you wish; I'll not ask any questions about it from this day forward." He stepped forward then, and Tom saw that once again, as he had done on Monday, he extended his hand to shake. And once again, Tom grasped the man's hand in a hearty shake, the two of them coming to a mutual understanding.

They released each other, and Tom watched as Lord Grantham took a step back, and then another, before proceeding to sit down at his desk once again. The meeting was over.

"I promised her Ladyship that we will send a telegram as soon as we arrive in Dublin," Tom informed, feeling it necessary to say something before simply turning and leaving.

Lord Grantham nodded in approval. "Good, good," he murmured, looking down at his desk again. "We'll be anticipating it."

Tom nodded, gave a slight cough, and then glanced at the door. Everything seemed to be settled, at least for the moment, so what more could be said? "Good day, then, your Lordship." He turned to go and his hand had just fallen on the doorknob when his Lordship called out to him.

"Branson!"

Tom paused and looked over his shoulder at the man.

"Take care of her…"

There was no malice or insult in the man's simple sentence. Nor was there anything of that sort on his face. Tom saw the genuine emotion and apprehension in Robert Crawley's eyes, and once again, as it had on the day Lord Grantham had come to his room at the inn, his heart swelled with pity for the man.

"I will," he promised, before quickly adding, "We'll take care of each other."

For the second time that day, Tom saw the corners of his Lordship's mouth lift to reveal a small smile, one that was once again filled with relief, as well as good humor and understanding.

"Yes, yes, I believe you will."

* * *

><p>Mrs. Gwen Warren sat and gazed at the sight of her two friends—Tom seated on the floor of her humble parlor, making all sorts of faces at Tommy and Annie, both of whom clapped and laughed and attempted to toddle after him when he got up on his hands and knees to crawl away—and Sybil, who sat in a nearby chair and who was laughing along with the children, looking so carefree, so happy, so…natural.<p>

Yes, that was rather the perfect word to describe her friends: natural. Both Tom and Sybil looked "natural", here in this cottage, grinning and laughing while playing with two children…together. Indeed, just as Sybil had told her in all those letters they had exchanged, _this_ was clearly the sort of life she was meant for. And who could doubt upon seeing her now that she wouldn't be satisfied or happy with it?

An hour ago, she had been glancing back and forth at the clock above her fireplace and the opened telegram on her kitchen table. It arrived the night before, confirming that the two of them would be arriving today, just as Sybil's previous letter had indicated. While it wasn't clear exactly when they would be coming, Gwen busily went to work, preparing something to eat as the lunch hour approached. She was in the process of cutting up some ham and cheese from the cottage's tiny larder when a delighted squeal from her son's lips filled the air and Gwen lifted her head to see both her children gripping the windowsill, large grins on their faces, as they gazed out at the approaching car.

Gwen cleaned her hands and flew out the door, and laughed with delight as she watched Tom leap out of the Renault (from the backseat for a change!) and help Sybil down before the driver even had a chance to open his own door.

"Oh Gwen!" Sybil gasped, and as soon as her feet were on the ground, she flew across the short gravel lane and threw her arms around the former housemaid. Gwen laughed and hugged her friend back just as tightly, lifting her eyes and seeing Tom's happy grin just spread wider and wider.

"Mrs. Warren," he greeted with a slight bow of his head.

Gwen giggled and opened her arms to him, and just as he had done on that day she had learned she had gotten her new job, Tom swept both her and Sybil up, both women squealing and laughing, before quickly being set down.

Here they were again, the three of them; and despite all the years and changes that had taken place between that day and this one, it was clear some things would never change, and that made Miss Gwen Dawson, now Mrs. Gwen Warren, very happy.

"TOM! TOM! TOM! TOM!"

They all turned their heads as the two ginger-haired toddlers waddled out after their mother, eager to see the man who their young minds remembered as the one who would lift and toss them into the air. Tom laughed and bent down to scoop up the twins, his strong arms wrapping around the two, and Sybil watched with nothing but the purest love, while Gwen observed for the first time that afternoon, how natural this life seemed for the both of them.

Fifteen minutes after Tom and Sybil's arrival, Edward returned home from the office for some lunch. He greeted Tom with a hearty handshake, congratulating him on the new job, before turning and gently shaking Sybil's hand (trying to be as natural as possible, when it was clear he was a little nervous, being in the presence of a "Lady", bless), congratulating her on their engagement, and then finally turning to his wife and giving her a much-needed kiss.

The four of them, along with the twins, sat down for a simple meal of cold ham and cheese sandwiches. Gwen wished it could have been more (and even though her friendship with Sybil had deepened over the years, there would always be a part of her that would see Sybil as a "Lady", and one who deserved finer things), but both of them smiled and ate and thanked Gwen for her kindness and generosity to them, looking so happy, and so…free.

Yes, that was the perfect word, just like "natural". While there in her cottage, at her table, Tom and Sybil did not feel the necessity or the burden to "hide" their feelings, and she noticed how the two of them were practically touching whenever they had the chance, be it a nudge of their shoulders, her fingers rising to touch his shoulder, his fingers running along the back of her neck, or both of their hands finding each other on the table and lacing their fingers together…

Yes, they were free to openly express and show that they were an engaged couple at long last. And that was the most natural look about them.

Soon Edward had to part and return to the office, but he wished the couple joy and shook their hands again, before turning and kissing her and giving a quick kiss to the ginger heads of their children. Sybil volunteered then to help her with the washing up, something that Gwen couldn't deny surprised her, but Sybil insisted. "I need the practice," she joked, her cheeks darkening a little with embarrassment. "I don't want Tom's mother to think I'm completely helpless."

Tom volunteered to dry, and once Sybil seemed to "understand" how the sink in her kitchen worked, they both insisted that she sit down and relax while they took care of the dishes. Gwen laughed and allowed them to do so, murmuring something about "maybe I should simply hire you both to be my live-in servants?" However, she quickly realized that that would be a bad idea, as it didn't take long for the two of them to start "messing around" like a pair of love-sick teenagers, Sybil splashing him in the face with soapy water, and Tom rolling up the towel in his hands and proceeding to swat her bum with it!

"Oi!" Gwen intervened before things got out of hand and the two of them winded up chasing each other around the house. "I already have two children to manage," she muttered, although she couldn't help but grin and give Sybil a wink when her friend blushed over her "naughty behavior".

With the dishes cleaned and put away, Gwen made some tea and the three of them returned to the parlor, where they sat now, talking a little here and there about the last few days at Downton, expressing sadness over the recent events from Miss Swire's death to Bates' arrest, to briefly discussing their journey to Ireland, and when they hoped the wedding would take place.

"Do you think that you and Edward and the children could attend?" Sybil asked, nibbling her lip and looking hopeful, while at the same time trying to put on a mask to hide any disappointment should the answer be negative.

Gwen glanced down at the children who were tugging on Tom's trouser legs, clearly wanting him to play with them. "Maybe," she answered honestly. "It will depend on whether Edward can get the time off, and on the children's health. They've never taken a sea voyage."

"Oh," Sybil whispered, as if realizing these other factors that she clearly hadn't quite comprehended. "Of course, of course."

Gwen sighed, wishing she could give a definite yes. She honestly would love to attend the wedding of her friends and see the both of them share in that happiness that they had witnessed when she and Edward had gotten married just over four years ago. But that was the "burden" of working class life; holidays fitted around work schedules and you only had yourselves to depend upon in the care and raising of your children. It was the sort of life Lady Sybil was entering, and she would soon have to embrace its challenges, whether she wanted to or not.

"Well, I hope you can!" Sybil rallied, trying to be positive. "And…and if not, well, Tom and I will have photographs taken and send them to you."

Gwen smiled at this and nodded her head. "I'd like that very much," she answered truthfully, her eyes moving to Tom's and giving him a kind smile. He returned the smile, his hand once again finding Sybil's and entwining his fingers with hers.

Annie and Tommy were not relenting on Tom's trousers, so he moved to the floor and began to entertain them in that way that always had them giggling. Soon the twins had all the attention, and Gwen smiled and watched as her friends played with her children, easily imagining the both of them with children of their own someday. Yes, she had no doubts that the two of them would be excellent parents, and even though she knew that this new life which Sybil was entering would have its fair share of shocks and unpleasant surprises, she also knew that her friend would manage and welcome those challenges. And if anyone could make such a transition from a posh world like Downton Abbey, it would be Lady Sybil Crawley.

The time came when her friends needed to catch their train for Liverpool. Gwen did her best not to cry as she embraced the both of them, wishing them safe travels and every joy, asking them to do what she knew they would do, which was write to her and tell her everything about Ireland and always, always keep her informed. They promised, and Sybil couldn't hold back her tears, so naturally Gwen soon found herself crying as well.

"Thank you," Sybil gasped as they hugged. "Thank you so much, Gwen, for everything…thank you…" she kept repeating over and over.

Gwen didn't trust her voice so she simply hugged her back, nodding her head into Sybil's shoulder as they tearfully embraced. Finally, by some sort of herculean strength, the two of them managed to let one another go, and Gwen gave a quick hug to Tom, before forcing herself to step away and hug her children, whose little faces were covered in tears of their own.

Later that evening, after Edward had come home, she went to her husband and embraced him tightly, allowing herself a good cry against his chest which he kindly welcomed. "It's going to be alright," he murmured after a while into her hair. "I know you miss them…but everything will be fine."

Gwen nodded and smiled up at him, despite her wet cheeks. "I know," she whispered with a nod of her head. "I…I'm truly, truly happy for them."

He smiled and bent his head to kiss her, Gwen returning the kiss with all the love and passion she had felt for this wonderful man since the day they began courting. Indeed, if Tom and Sybil felt half the love that she felt for Edward (and she knew that they did), then she had every faith that they would be alright.

* * *

><p>Sybil nibbled her bottom lip as she stood in corridor, just outside of the lavatory of the Lawson's Liverpool home. She was already dressed for bed, her nightgown on and a dressing gown over it. Her feet were bare and her hair was down, and her fingers played with the ties of her dressing gown as she rocked back and forth, waiting for the door to open.<p>

Her rocking ceased when it finally did open and a bashful smile spread across her face as she looked up at the man who was exiting the room.

Tom had not been expecting to see her and he froze as he stepped out of the loo, suddenly very conscious of the fact that he was extremely underdressed, wearing only a tight undershirt, his suspenders hanging loosely down around his hips, and his trousers, while up, had not been refastened properly.

"Hello…" she whispered in greeting, her smile only growing more and more as she allowed her eyes to sweep over him appreciatively. _The little minx…_

"Fancy meeting you here, milady," he teased, trying to hide his initial bashfulness and only praying that his trousers wouldn't do anything too embarrassing…like slip past his hips and reveal to her just how deeply her presence affected him.

She giggled and looked down at her feet, her hands now clasped behind her back, a beautiful blush coloring her cheek and making her look even more tantalizing if that were possible. God, she truly had no idea, did she? Not only as to how beautiful she was, but as to how desirable she was, either? Perhaps he wouldn't have to worry about his trousers, because he suddenly could feel them tightening…

"It occurred to me," she whispered, looking up at him through hooded lashes, her eyes alight with what could only be labeled as "mischief".

"What occurred to you?" he asked, smiling back and leaning against the doorframe of the loo.

"Well…" she took a step towards him and Tom held his breath as he watched her hands come around…and rest against his chest. "Tomorrow evening…we'll be in Ireland."

He swallowed and nodded his head. "Aye, that we will be."

She wet her lips and Tom had to do everything he could not to groan at the innocent yet painfully erotic gesture.

"Well…that also means that tonight will be our last night…under the same roof…" she murmured, her fingers playing with the fabric of his shirt. "…Until our wedding night."

The groan he had suppressed earlier was not able to remain suppressed any longer, and thank heaven he was already leaning against the doorframe, because he was sure his legs would have given out at the image her simple words were painting in his mind.

"So…" her hands rose up to his shoulders, and Tom's breathing became very labored as he felt her body, soft and delicious, her gorgeous curves hidden behind two thin layers of fabric, press against his own as she leaned up on her tip toes so that their faces, or more specifically, their mouths, could be level with one another. "…I wanted to say goodnight…and wish you the sweetest dreams…"

Oh God, as if he could dream of anything else! He groaned her name, his own hands moving around her body, pulling her closer, delighting in the gasp that escaped her throat as the most physical sign of his desire for her rubbed against her abdomen, but just before his mouth claimed the prize she was offering, a soft but very distinct "Ahem!" was heard just over Sybil's shoulder.

Tom stiffened and cleared his throat, and Sybil burned brightly as she eased herself away from him, before turning and greeting her friend with a sheepish and guilty grin. "Susan," she whispered.

Susan Lawson eyed the both of them, though Tom could see the teasing light in her eyes as she shook her head and muttered something under her breath about "newlyweds", even though technically, they weren't that…yet.

"Need I remind you, _milady_," Susan teased, her eyes holding Sybil's. "That Lord and Lady Grantham have entrusted me with the care of your…" she eyed the both of them, "virtue," she quirked an eyebrow, "while you are staying here, in Liverpool."

Sybil groaned and rolled her eyes, which caused Susan to laugh and ease some of the embarrassment that filled the corridor upon being "caught in the act", so to speak.

"You're one to talk," Sybil muttered, earning a mocking gasp of shock from her friend.

"Sybil Crawley! I have no idea to what you are insinuating," she turned her eyes then to Tom. "Don't believe a word this one says. Especially when she passionately protests that she is not in love with the chauffeur back home."

"SUSAN!" Sybil gasped, looking utterly mortified, though Tom couldn't help but grin and feel his chest swell with a touch of male egotistical pride.

"We need to talk more often," he chuckled, laughing even harder when Sybil turned around and swatted his chest.

"Oh, I have plenty of stories to tell," Susan winked. "And a word of warning; she snores."

"WHAT?!" Sybil gasped, her face brighter than any shade of red he had ever seen. "I…I DO NOT!"

"She also talks in her sleep," Susan continued, ignoring Sybil. _"'Oh Tom, you're so strong…I love watching your arms and your hands while you work…',"_ she mimicked.

The mortification was more than Sybil could bear. "Oh!" she stomped her foot, pushing away from him and moving passed Susan.

"I thought you needed to use the loo?" Susan called out to her, but Sybil muttered something which sounded eerily like a word one would hear coming out of the mouth of a crude dock worker than the daughter of an English earl. "Oh dear," Susan sighed, shaking her head. "Perhaps I teased too far?" She grinned back at him and nodded her head. "Go on; nothing that a little 'goodnight kiss' can't cure; I won't tell," she winked, before turning and proceeding to enter her own bedroom, just to the right.

Tom sighed and moved down the corridor to the door Sybil had disappeared behind. He gave a light knock and heard her voice mutter on the other side, "I don't snore!"

He bit his lip to keep from laughing. "Even if you did, do you think that would stop me from loving you? Or thinking you beautiful?"

Suddenly the door opened and Tom nearly fell forward. "I didn't snore _that night_, did I?" she asked, her voice a soft hiss as she looked up at him with wide, embarrassed eyes.

The effort not to laugh was proving even harder. "No, love, I swear."

Sybil eyed him. "And…and I didn't talk on my sleep…did I?"

Tom bit his lip and he glanced at the ground.

Sybil's eyes widened. "Did I?"

He looked back at her, and then proceeded to say_, "'Oh Tom, never stop kissing me…'"_

He laughed as she shoved against his chest. "I DID NOT SAY THAT!"

He caught her up in his arms, despite her struggles, and leaned down until their foreheads were touching. "It's your word against mine, love," he teased, kissing her nose and grinning at the little face she made. However, she soon stopped her struggles and he felt her melt against him, wrapping her own arms around him, though she tried to look haughty and stern. "Ah, don't be like that, love," he murmured, nuzzling the side of her neck and smiling as he heard Sybil whimper. "You said so yourself…tonight will be our last night under the same roof until we marry; and I rather like the idea of you murmuring my name in your sleep."

"You would," she groaned, rolling her eyes which earned her another deep chuckle from his throat. "Honestly, Tom, how do you manage to step through a door when your head is so large?"

"Can't help it," he laughed. "When a man has the good fortune to call you his fiancée, it's impossible not to be proud."

She tried to give him a look, but she couldn't help but blush at his sweet words. "How long do you think we'll have to wait?" she sighed, looking impatient.

He knew what she meant. "Not very long, I would think. Just a few weeks."

She sighed and looked down at his chest. "We've gotten very good at waiting, you and I," she murmured, repeating the words he had once said to her. It was true; they had perfected the art of patience. Still, that didn't mean they were any less eager.

"Tomorrow will bring us one day closer," he whispered against her hair. "And after tomorrow, we'll wake up in Ireland, and be even that much closer."

She nodded her head and looked up at him, a soft smile spreading at the corners of her lips, before she silently rose up on her toes and allowed her mouth to brush against his. He eagerly returned the kiss, groaning as he felt her sweet tongue slip past his lips, his own caressing it before finding sanctuary in her mouth. It was a long kiss, teetering on the edge of intense passion. But somehow, they managed to stay in control, his hands never wandering past her waist. Finally, their lips parted and a long, shaky breath escaped their throats. "Goodnight," she whispered, leaning close and kissing the base of his neck and collarbone. He groaned and allowed himself to savor the sweet touch of her lips, before reluctantly releasing her and watching her glide back into her room.

"Goodnight, love…sleep well."

She smiled and blushed. "I'll try…though it will be difficult, knowing that you're only a few doors away."

Oh God, she would be the death of him. And what a beautiful, sweet death it would be.

"Dream of me?" she whispered.

"Always," he answered without hesitation.

She smiled at this, murmured another goodnight, before shutting the door at last. He groaned and leaned his forehead against the wood of the doorframe, silently counting in his head, trying to regain the composure of his breathing and heartbeat. Finally, with determined strength, he pushed himself away from the door and forced himself to go to his own room, locking himself inside as a means to keep the temptation of slipping out and wandering back to her room, at bay.

It took some time, but sleep did finally come to him. And when it did, he dreamt of his fiancée…who wasn't his fiancée anymore, but his wife. He dreamt of her beautiful naked form curled up against his body, her dark hair spread across the pillow, her eyes bright and a smile on her lips as her arms beckoned him to cover her and make love to her.

Which he did.

Many times.

* * *

><p><em>That morning...<em>

Whenever she imagined the day they would finally make their journey to Ireland, Sybil had never really given a great deal of thought to the many "goodbyes" she would be making. It seemed that was all she had done over the past twenty-four hours. She had said goodbye to her family, waved to her sisters from the car, as well as took notice of several other faces from a nearby window, including Anna, Mrs. Hughes, and Thomas. Then, after the sweet reunion with Gwen and her family, she was forced all too soon to say goodbye, and now, her she was again, saying goodbye to Susan who she hadn't seen since during the War, hugging her tightly, thanking her and James for kindly allowing the both of them to stay, and wishing them nothing but good blessings, her hand falling to Susan's rounded belly.

"It will be your turn soon," Susan had giggled, causing Sybil to blush deeply. "If you and Tom are anything like me and James—and judging from what I saw last night, I'd dare say you might be," she said with a wink, "then I wouldn't be surprised if within a month of your marriage, you'll be announcing your own blessed news."

Sybil cheeks had never felt so hot. She did want to have children with Tom someday, but she hadn't really given the thought as to "when" that would happen. Was it bad that she didn't want it to be soon? It was just that she wanted to know what it was like…being married…just the two of them. At least for a little while.

"Sybil?" she turned to look at her fiancée, who was standing in the doorway of the Lawson's house, holding their newly purchased tickets. "It's time, love."

A long, shaky breath escaped her lips then. _It's time_. Time to say goodbye again, and not just to a dear friend, but to the land of her birth, to the country she called home. _Time to move forward…_

"I want to hear everything!" Susan told her, squeezing her hand as she turned towards the door. "Write to me soon! Keep me abreast on everything regarding the wedding, and never hesitate to ask me any questions of any kind, as you start setting up your house."

Sybil smiled at her friend and returned the squeeze. "I will, I promise," she whispered, swallowing back the tears that threatened to fall again. "And you as well!" she instructed, looking pointedly at Susan's stomach. Her friend laughed, ran a hand lovingly over her belly, before nodding her head and promising the same.

With James' help, they moved their trunks down to the docks and quickly had them loaded on board. Both Tom and Sybil shook James' hand, thanking him for his help and for welcoming them into his home, which he smiled and said it was a pleasure to finally return the favor to Sybil for the kindness she and her family had shown him, back when he wasn't sure he would ever be able to see again. Sybil turned and looked at the gangplank that led to their boat, and then turned and looked one last time at the land around her. _Goodbye, England…_

"Sybil?"

She turned and looked at the man who would soon be her husband. He was holding his hand out to her, his expression eager, but kind and patient as well. "Are you ready?"

Without hesitation, she took his hand, and stepped onto the gangplank. "I'm ready to travel, Mr. Branson," she murmured, lifting his hand to her lips and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "And you're my ticket."

* * *

><p><em>Present...<em>

"TOM!"

He was shaken from his revelry, from the memories they had shared over the past day as they prepared for this voyage. He looked up at her, her eyes large and blue and full of wonder, and he realized then that she was pointing at something beyond the boat's railing, something in the distance…

"Tom...Tom, is…is that…?"

He came to her side then and peered into the distance, his eyes narrowed as he followed her finger, his heart beating rapidly as he felt hope and anticipation rise up from the pit of his soul.

"It is, isn't it?" she whispered.

He couldn't speak. He could barely see, his vision was clouded with happy, joyful tears as for the first time in over five years…he laid eyes on the distant green shores of his homeland.

"It's Ireland…" he murmured, his voice so soft, the sound of the wind and the waves hitting the boat and drowning him out. But she heard him, and she wrapped her arms around his waist, letting her head come to rest upon his shoulder.

"No," she answered, which caused Tom to look down at her in confusion. However, she quickly explained herself by smiling and leaning up and brushing her lips against his. "It's home."

Home.

_Their_ home.

The place where they would work, where they would marry, where they would have children, and where they would build a future for themselves. The place where the journey of their love would continue, only this time, they would be making that journey together.

"Welcome home, Tom," she murmured, tightening her hold on him.

He gazed down at her and smiled, his nose running alongside hers, his lips hovering just a few inches away. "And the same to you…_Mrs. Branson_."

She giggled and blushed, her own nose nuzzling his. "I like the sound of that."

"So do I," he chuckled, before touching his brow to hers. "I love you so much, Sybil."

She nodded her head, her own eyes brimming with tears. "And I you," she whispered.

Nothing more needed to be said then, which was fine. He didn't want to speak anymore, just kiss her. Kiss her as they drew closer to Ireland's shores, the shores of their home, the shores of their future.

The rest truly was detail.

**_The journey continues in Love's Continuing Journey..._**


End file.
